Space and Time
by rynogeny
Summary: Brennan and Christine are on the run, Booth and the team are trying to figure out how to bring them home. A hiatus story for the summer of 2012 exploring possible scenarios for what everyone does and how they cope.
1. May

_A/N: This started out as two short scenes exploring the immediate aftermath of their separation, and took on a life of its own. My plan now is to write three more parts (June, July, August) looking at what everyone is doing while Brennan is away. I don't intend to attempt to resolve the situation so much make suggestions as to what might be happening leading up to the premiere. (It's a given I'll be wrong, but that's where my theory of Fan Fiction as Alternate Universes comes into play.)_

* * *

Day 1

Brennan didn't look back.

Pain that served no purpose was useless, and could be distracting. So she turned the radio up loud enough to make certain she couldn't hear Booth yelling, and drove away.

There was no GPS in the car, and she'd left her phone with her father, so she concentrated on the directions Max had provided. Their agreed-upon route was one that stuck to back roads and old highways. He'd purchased the car the day before under an alias - the fact that he still had up-to-date aliases was something else there was no point in thinking about - meaning there wouldn't be an immediate way to connect the car to her, or to put out an APB on her. But he'd said interstates would still be dangerous, especially around DC. Too many cops knew what she looked like.

And it wasn't like the goal was to hurry anywhere in particular. She had all the time in the world, as long as she was at their meeting spot in three days. No, the goal wasn't to get to somewhere, Just to get away from where she'd been. Where she belonged. With Booth. In their home. Caring for their daughter together.

Grimly, she once again forced her mind away, to Pelant. The fastest way home was to find something that would clear her and incriminate him, so while she drove into the late afternoon sun, she mentally went over every detail of every encounter they'd had with him, every clue he'd left, everything he'd pulled off which had resulted in this flight.

It was a disturbingly long list.

She drove until Christine started to fuss, then pulled off beneath a clump of trees on a dark side road. The baby was definitely unhappy, and who could blame her? By the time Brennan got her out of the car seat, her daughter's whimpers were threatening to turn to screams. "Shh...," she murmured as she unbuttoned her blouse, made her breast available. The baby latched on, and Brennan sighed with relief that was more than physical. It was good to take a break from the driving. "As soon as you finish, I'll look for a place to spend the night," she promised.

The moonlight poured in, allowed her to see Christine's downy head as the baby suckled, and a wave of tenderness washed over Brennan. Would she have made the same choice, done the same thing, if not for her daughter? She didn't know. She could no longer imagine life without the baby nestled against her. She pressed a kiss to Christine's head, and the memory of Booth doing the same thing moments before she left pushed into her mind.

Resolutely, she forced it back out. She could not go there, could not think about what she'd just done to him. What she'd done, she'd done for him as well. It was their only chance, slim though it might be, to reclaim the life they'd had that Pelant had taken from them.

Did it make it better or worse that she knew what it was like to watch your family drive away and leave you?

* * *

Booth had no idea how long he'd sat on the church steps, certain if he moved to do whatever came next, he'd simply shatter. Brennan had left him. Just driven away with his daughter, and left him with ...nothing. An empty child carrier, an empty heart. He stared around blankly, then looked up at the church rising behind him, unable even to form the words to pray.

She'd made a point of telling him that she loved him. But she didn't trust him enough to want him with her. He'd do anything to protect them, and it hadn't been enough.

He thought of the baptism, and oddly enough, was comforted more by that than her words. That had been her goodbye to him, hers and Christine's. But damn it, why hadn't she understood he'd need to say goodbye to them, too?

The street was empty, strange for this time of day, but he kept staring in the direction his life had gone. Max's words came back to him. "_If you knew, you'd be an accomplice." That's_why she'd not given him the chance to say goodbye, to know? To feel apart of what was going on, to feel connected to her and Christine? Not to feel so damn lost?

Once, he'd have agreed with her. Reluctantly, but he would have done so. His career mattered. But now? Was it worth it? Worth this? Honest to God, he didn't know.

What the hell was he supposed to do? Go back to that great big empty house and do ...what? No job, and hell, his car wouldn't even start until he fixed Max's sabotage. "_You stay in the system. I'll make sure she stays out of it."_ What did that even mean, when he was suspended? Pelant _owned_the system at the moment. Eight years, Brennan had been working to give names to the nameless and bring criminals to justice, and just like that, they were all willing to be manipulated into participating in what so easily could have been her death. Bitterly, he wondered if she'd stayed, gone to jail, turned up dead, who would they have blamed for that?

Max's final words came back to him: "_You get that bastard, you'll bring your family home. I'll keep her safe."_Cautiously, he took a breath, let it out. Division of labor. Max and Brennan would keep her and Christine safe; he'd find a way to nail Pelant's ass to the wall.

But exactly how was he supposed to do that when he wasn't working for the bureau?

He considered his options. Did he have the right to further involve the team? They knew Brennan was innocent, but it wasn't just their careers that were at stake. Of Pelant's three known victims - well, known to Booth and the team, at least - two of them had been a threat to his freedom. Krane would eventually have given Pelant up as his source, and Ethan...Pelant must have believed that what the crazy genius was telling Brennan was a real risk to him. If Booth was going to have to go after Pelant by himself, it would probably be safest for the others to involve them as little as possible.

He thought of Angela and snorted. Yeah, that was a pipe dream.

Still, he'd try to keep them as low-profile as possible, at least. With Brennan gone and Booth out of the picture, the team would be given other cases. From the bureau's perspective, there wasn't anything left for them to do. Brennan had killed Ethan and Pelant was apparently as innocent as a newborn babe on all fronts. And Krane's case had been given back to the DCPD since there was no evidence linking it to a serial killer.

His phone rang and he closed his eyes, pretended for a moment that it would be Brennan, knowing before he looked at the display that it wouldn't be. But it was worse than he'd hoped. Flynn. Not quite ready to face convincing the FBI that no, he really didn't know where his partner was, he silenced the phone, let it go to voice mail.

His brain switched tracks, and he thought about her words to him. _"I love you, Booth. I don't want you to think Christine is the only reason we're together." _The grief, rage, and terror were still there, but the pressure eased in his chest a little more. That, with what Max had said …it wasn't that she hadn't trusted him enough to let him run with them. Rather, she was trusting him to make it safe for them to come back home.

He had to believe that. There was nothing else.

So he would do so. He'd start by gathering more intel on Pelant. He didn't believe for a moment that the whack job would turn into a model citizen now. He'd run it past Sweets, but his sense was that Pelant was having way too much fun controlling everyone around him to give it up now.

But damn it, he wasn't looking forward to that lonely house.

* * *

Brennan did as Max had suggested. The twelve-unit motel outside a small town in Pennsylvania was privately owned, and while showing its age, appeared clean and well-kept. The innkeeper was friendly, but not too much so. At his inquiry as to her destination, she told him she was taking her daughter to meet some extended family, and that had seemed to satisfy him. He passed her a registration form, then went to get the key from the next room.

There was nothing whatsoever common about the name Temperance. Using it seemed extremely foolhardy, because if they tracked her, he'd be more likely to remember it. But if she put anything else down, and he asked for ID, she'd be in trouble.

Deciding the chances of his remembering her name were greater than his asking for ID given how relaxed he was, she boldly put 'J.T. Booth' in the name field. Joy was no longer her name, but it had been once, and Booth...women changing their names as part of a relationship with a man was a ridiculous, demeaning, antiquated custom.

But at the moment, using his name was a connection back to him. A link, and somehow, a promise that they'd be together again.

The innkeeper showed no interest at all in ID, and barely looked at the card she'd signed.

He'd given her the room at the end, away from the other cars. She laid Christine in the middle of the bed, then surveyed the space. It would do. Returning to the car parked just outside, she opened the trunk, stunned to see everything her dad had crammed in it. She'd managed to pack a few things for herself and Christine while Booth had been arranging the earlier baptism, but Max had added the portable crib, the collapsible stroller, extra diapers and wipes. She was relieved to see her laptop tucked off to the side. They'd argued about that, until she'd convinced him that having it didn't mean using the internet. But all the files on Pelant were there - if Cam had been instructed to make certain Brennan didn't keep copies when she'd been removed from the case, she'd not passed that on - as well as notes for her next novel. If nothing else, maybe she'd get a good start on writing it over these next weeks.

There was non-perishable food as well, and water. And sleeping bags and a tent. Grateful for her experience on rustic digs that meant she'd manage that life if necessary, Brennan really hoped it wouldn't be. Not with Christine.

She left the survival gear, but brought in everything else, too drained to figure out what she might or might not need. Once in the room with the door locked, her gaze strayed toward the phone. She knew the answer before it even fully formed in her mind. No. No calls. No contact.

Resolutely turning her mind to something else - anything else - she unpacked Christine's bag, pulling out pajamas and what she'd dress the baby in the next day before opening her own suitcase. She frowned when she spied one of Booth's Flyers' jerseys resting on top of her clothes. She'd not packed it, would never have thought to do so, so why had her father? Shaking her head in bemusement, she reached for it, then noticed a plain white envelope tucked beneath it.

She slid a finger beneath the flap to open it, and swallowed at the photos that spilled out. Two of Booth, one of the two of them while she was pregnant, one of him with Christine, and one of the three of them with Parker. She remembered giving them to her father a few weeks earlier. She looked at all of them, but kept going back to one of the ones where Booth was alone. She traced his face, swallowed against the tears. She'd known the moment he laid Christine in her arms that her life would never be the same again, that the emotional attachment to her daughter was immediate, permanent and irrevocable, and she'd rejoiced in that, even while it terrified her.

She'd not understood that sometime in the past year or so, her bond with her partner had deepened to nearly the same degree as what she felt for her daughter. It wasn't just Christine. She knew a number of single parents, and they all seemed fine with not having a romantic partner. Brennan was as strong as any of them, and yet, the thought of not seeing him, not hearing his voice, not arguing with him, not watching him with Christine or Parker or shouting at a sports display on TV...a tear broke through her control and slid down her cheek.

An emotional storm might have followed if Christine hadn't started to fuss. Swallowing the tears, Brennan picked the baby up, the photos still in her hand. Christine rubbed her face on Brennan's shoulder, waking up, then noticed the photos and reached for them. Knowing they'd go straight to her mouth, Brennan shifted so Christine could see them but not grab them. The baby touched the top one of Booth and vocalized …something..

She couldn't possibly recognize him from a photo. Brennan knew that. But for the first time, she wondered what the consequences would be of the separation. How long would they be apart? How long would it be before Christine forgot her father? What would it do to him if when they reunited, the baby acted the way she did around strangers? Closing her eyes she rested her head against her daughter's. Damn Pelant.

She'd look it up. She'd research memory and facial recognition in infants younger than six months. There would be all kinds of research- Then she remembered. No internet. No research databases. No parenting sites.

Her eyes narrowed as she stared down at the photos. Fine, then, She'd not always had easy access to research databases. She could find the answers, it would just take longer. A bookstore. She'd find a bookstore at the first opportunity.

For now, more urgent matters demanded her attention. Since she wouldn't be going back out, she took her blouse off, then settled on the bed to feed the baby. Once they were comfortable, she said, "Your father is very unhappy at not being with us," she began. "You must never think otherwise. He loves you very much, and is very distressed about not being here." She tried to imagine what Booth was doing, and her mind went blank. "He's missing us," she said softly. "I know that for certain."

She held Christine and played with her for a while after the feeding, until the baby's eyes drooped. Her own following suit due to the long day and the driving, Brennan put her to bed in the portable crib, then reached for her nightgown. Instead, she picked up the Flyers' jersey, and without letting herself think about it - if she did, she'd feel stupid - she went to get ready for bed. Sleeping in his shirt wouldn't be a substitute for sleeping with his arms around her. But it was his and...well, it was his.

* * *

The meeting with Flynn had gone pretty much the way Booth had expected it would. When he'd called the agent back and told him Brennan had fled, Flynn had given him thirty minutes to show up at the Hoover or else a warrant would be issued for his arrest. It was posturing, in Booth's opinion. They couldn't make an arrest for being an accomplice stick when they didn't have any evidence he knew where Brennan was, but there was no point in antagonizing them further. And being as fair as possible to Flynn, it was as annoying as hell to think you were about to close a high profile case, only to have your suspect vanish.

As it was, he barely made it within Flynn's arbitrary time limit, thanks to having to reattach the wires Max had disconnected and replace the distributor cap. At least the old man had left him the tools he'd needed to do so.

He stared at the other agent across the table in the interrogation room. More posturing, in Booth's opinion, in not giving him the courtesy of the conference room.

Flynn stared at him through narrowed eyes. "You want me to believe you have no idea where your partner is,; where your daughter is."

Why had he not realized what a bastard the man was before now? "No. I do not know where they are."

"And we should believe you, why?"

Because some day this will be over and I'll stomp your ass, Booth thought. "If I knew where they were, I'd be with them. Look, when you gave me a choice earlier between suspension and desk duty, what'd I pick?"

"Suspension."

"Why?"

"You said it was to protect them from Pelant," Flynn snapped.

"So why would I be here now instead of with them if I could make the same choice?"

"I'm asking the questions here."

"Yeah, well, better get started then."

"Fine. Take me through your day again. Ms. Julian told you and Dr. Brennan that a warrant was being issued. What happened then? What did your partner say?"

"That she wanted to move our daughter's baptism up."

"And that didn't seem like an indication to you that she might be thinking about fleeing, particularly given her family history?"

The man was a moron. "Not without telling me, no. What would you do, if you had an infant that you'd most likely never see again? Wouldn't you want to leave her something?"

"Never see again?" There was a hint of a smirk. "Is that an admission of guilt, Booth? That your partner knew she'd be convicted?"

"No, damn it. It's an acknowledgement that Bones wouldn't live to see a trial once Pelant had her where he wanted her."

"Oh, come on. You know the procedures in place to keep someone like Dr. Brennan out of the jail's general population. Solitary wouldn't be fun, but-'

"You really are an idiot, aren't you? Ethan died because of a 'computer glitch' that allowed him into an open ward. Ezra Krane's remains never made it to the lab because of a series of orders no one can trace. Bones goes to jail and within days an order pops up moving her to GP, and in hours, she's dead."

"She's the one changing the orders, Booth, so unless she's developed a death wish, she'll be safe in jail. We'll guarantee it. Call her, tell her to turn herself in."

"I. Don't. Know. Where. She. Is," he said. "And no, you can't guarantee her safety, not while Pelant is out there." Wearily, Booth wondered again why he'd ever believed in the system at all. Maybe once this was over he'd go into the private sector. "Tell me something, Flynn. Show me where there's any evidence at all that Bones has the skills to hack into the systems you're accusing her of hacking?"

"Dr. Brennan's genius IQ level is well-known."

"Yeah, and so is Pelant's, a convicted hacker. There is nothing in Bones' background to support her doing this. She's all about bones and anthropology. You're following what looks like hard evidence and ignoring everything that would point a different way just to close the case."

"Now, look..."

The door opened, and Director Sam Cullen stalked in. His glance took in both of them, but then settled on Flynn. "He's right, Agent. This investigation is a pile of especially smelly crap."

Flynn and Booth both stood, Flynn's face a satisfying shade of white. "Sir, the evidence against Dr. Brennan-"

"Is too convenient," the older man snapped. "Particularly for someone compiling evidence against a guy smarter than all of us put together."

"You're going to push to drop the charges?" Flynn asked stiffly.

"Hell, no. I said the evidence was convenient, not invisible. If Brennan's guilty, I'll escort her to prison myself. But I'm damn well not going to let a serial killer take down the best team we've got while you stand and clap." He pointed to Booth. "You. Your suspension's revoked. Get your ass back on the case and clear your partner."

"Sir," Flynn said, "He assaulted…"

"Yes, he did. Why? No, don't look at Booth," he said sharply. "I want to hear why you think he attacked Pelant."

"There was no record of the phone call he claimed to have received," Flynn answered stiffly.

"No, there wasn't. I'll ask again – so why did he attack him?"

For the first time, Flynn looked genuinely uncertain. "I, uh, because he believed Pelant was framing Dr. Brennan?"

"And how did going to his house and beating the crap out of him help with that?"

"Ah…I don't know, sir."

"If you're going to use it against him, figure it out. Follow all the evidence, not just what's wrapped in a damn bow for you. Ask the questions you're not asking. Find out what the hell's going on, and how. Now go get Booth his weapon and badge back."

Flynn bolted and Booth and Cullen studied one another. Cullen had taken early retirement after his daughter's death, but had been talked into coming back to lead the agency while Booth had been in Afghanistan. Booth hadn't seen him since his return, and thought he still looked tired and old. "Sir..."

"I owe you, Booth. You and your team. But I know better than anyone what a parent will do when their child is threatened. The evidence may be convenient, but it's still damning."

"Sir, Bones didn't kill Ethan. The last time she saw him, he was in a high security area. He was no more of a threat to our daughter than any of the criminals we've locked up."

"Point to you, Booth. But the evidence is there. Find a way to disprove it."

"Yes, sir."

"And for the love of God, stay away from Pelant."

Being reinstated felt better than he'd thought it would. But Cullen's belief in Brennan eased that pressure a little more. They were nowhere near where they needed to be, but having the director of the bureau at least raising the possibility she was innocent gave them room to breathe. Gave them hope.

But damn it, there was no way to tell her that, and their house was still empty.

It was late by the time he pulled into Hodgins' driveway, but he needed to be with someone who loved Bones as much as he did, whose faith in her was uncomplicated.

Cam…he and Cam would have to talk at some point. She'd been right to hold the line she did, and he was grateful.. But tonight, he needed something else.

"Booth!" Angela threw open the door and rushed to meet him as he started up the walk. "Where have you been? Where's Brennan? Is she okay? No one's answering their phone!"

Damn. He yanked his phone out, a little panicked. Flynn had made him turn it off when he took him into interrogation, had threatened to confiscate it, and Booth had forgot to turn it back on. What if she'd called?

But no, there were no unknown numbers. Angela, Sweets, Caroline, Cam…Russ. That one would be fun to return.

"Booth!"

He looked up, wondered how to answer the question. "She's fine." He hoped. "She's gone, Angela. She left with Christine this afternoon."

She looked at him blankly. "Gone where?"

Hodgins stepped up behind her, touched her arm. "He means she's a fugitive." He turned observant eyes on Booth. "You don't know where, do you? That sucks, man." He motioned them inside, closed the door.

Angela's expression was stunned. "She really didn't tell you?"

"It would have made me an accomplice," he said tiredly. "We'd talked about going, but she and Max made the decision on their own. She left after the baptism. I went to get the car, which Max had sabotaged, and when I came back, they were gone. Max filled in some of the details."

They'd moved into the living room, and he collapsed on the sofa while Angela sat across from him, with Hodgins perched on the arm of her chair.

"She told me she loved me," Angela said quietly. "She knew she was leaving by then. Booth, I'm so sorry. She loves you, too, you know."

"Yeah." Would it be enough, though? What would this do to them? He didn't know, was too tired to guess.

"So now what? There's a plan, right?" Hodgins asked.

He pushed away the ever present desire to scream himself hoarse and said, "Division of labor. Max keeps them safe, we find what it takes for her to come home." Though how they were supposed to let Brennan know it was safe to come home when the figured it out, he didn't know.

Max probably had a crystal ball.

"How are you going to investigate when you've been suspended?" Hodgins asked.

"About that…" He looked at Angela, remembered what she had done for Cullen's daughter. He filled them in on his reinstatement, including the order to avoid Pelant.

While they digested that, he shifted focus. "We've got two different things to prove here. The first is that Bones is innocent of Ethan's murder. The second is that Pelant is guilty. We got hung up trying to prove he was framing her, and managed to make her look guilty and him look innocent."

Angela and Hodgins exchanged a look. "Yeah, we were talking about that," she said. "It just all went to hell so fast, you know?"

"You can say that again." He shifted, pushed away thoughts of a car driving away. "So here's what we're going to do. I'm going to focus on proving she couldn't have killed Ethan. You're going to prove Pelant is guilty."

Hodgins nodded. "Makes sense. Where will you begin?"

"The psych facility. I'm going to re-interview everyone there, have Sweets interview the patients." He frowned, unsure of Sweets' status. Well, if someone complained, he'd deal with it then. "And you all…"

"We've got a couple of things," Angela said. At his look, she held up a hand. "They're not magic bullets. The first are the library books Pelant had checked out. I think he was uploading code onto the RFID tags the library uses to track materials, code that hacked through the library security, onto the internet, and from there to where he wanted it to go."

"Like to the psych facility, to order Ethan's release?" Booth wasn't a computer expert by any means, and even he knew that what she was saying was nuts.

"Individual programs," she said. "I think one triggered a 'glitch' in the facility's network security that allowed the second program, from a second book, to access to the ward assignments."

"And if the second book gets checked in before the first?"

"The second virus waits and keeps trying. Booth, most hackers are looking for attention, or to steal personal information to sell. They're not looking to change a ward assignment, and that means they don't have a program to flag it. Antivirus software works on the assumption that a virus is going to target a lot of computers, not just one network. So the security programs may not even have noticed these programs slipping through."

It made his head hurt. "Right. So we've got the books, right? We match the books we can prove Pelant had checked out to things he did, and there we are."

But Angela was shaking her head. "The code is a bitch, Booth. He used a programming language that's ...well, it's named after Dante's eighth circle of hell. It was never intended to be used for actual programs. He then used code words for the variables. Most programs are written with at least some thought toward making them comprehensible. This is just the opposite."

"Think of something translated into Russian, by way of Swahili, and then written in a mix of Chinese and Japanese characters," Hodgins said.

Booth simply stared at them. "The code is in …code?"

Angela nodded. "I'm working on it, but it's making my eyes bleed." She hesitated. "There's a second problem, too."

"Naturally."

"I think he had a virus watching the library system. When I started scanning too many of the tags of books he'd had, he took their network down, completely wiped the database. They've got redundant backups, which I don't think he was anticipating, but they can't restore the data without the same thing happening again unless we can find and eradicate the virus that caused the crash, and there's no anti-virus for it yet. I'm working on that. I've got the code from about a fourth the books saved on an external drive – meaning it can't compromise our system – but it may take weeks to get to the rest of the code, let alone start figuring it out."

"But the code is on the tags, and you have the books."

"The tags were designed to be read by a multi-million dollar library system. I'm working with their IT department, helping them restore data, but right now, their preferred solution is to remove the books from the system, find a way not to restore them when the rest of the database is. I'm trying to convince them I'll make it worth their while by consulting with them for free, including creating the antivirus but it's not easy. And doing that is taking time away from cracking the code."

Frustrated, he rubbed his eyes. "It's still something. And that's more than we've had before."

"That's not all we've got in our corner," Hodgins said. "Though there's a problem with that, too."

"Let's hear it."

"Cam and I found code in Ethan's room that he left for Brennan – well, he left it for someone, and we're assuming it was her, or rather it was the insights into Pelant he was going to give her."

"But?"

Angela shook her head. "It's not just breaking the code and figuring out what it says. It's dealing with math so far above my head I don't have a hope of knowing what it means, anyway."

"Why did he write something Bones would never be able to understand? She's not a mathematician."

"We don't think he wrote it for her," Hodgins replied. "I think he wrote it for himself, notes as he figured out what Pelant was doing that he wanted to give to her."

At Booth's look, he held up his hands. "Don't look at me, dude. I'm the bug and slime guy. Pure mathematics, not my thing."

"The problem is that we don't have anyone whose thing it is," Angela noted. "I'm not sure even Zack could grasp it."

"Well, find someone," Booth said.

Her phone rang before she could respond, and they all tensed, stared at it as she looked at the display. "It's an unfamiliar number. Hello?" She listened, made a noise of assent, then handed the phone to Booth. "It's Max."

Puzzled, he took the phone. "Booth."

"Meet me at your coffee shop at 6AM. Bring anything you want her to have."

He hung up before Booth could say anything, and he frowned.

"What is it? What did he say?" Hodgins asked.

"He wants me to meet him in the morning at the coffee shop near our house. Bones and I stop there some mornings. Angela, what did he say, exactly, when you answered?"

"You're wondering if it was a Pelant-recording? I don't think so. He asked if you were here and then waited for me to answer before asking to speak to you. What do you think it's about?"

"I don't know. He said I should bring anything I want her to have, so I suspect he's leaving town right afterward." He sighed. How did he know what she needed, or would want? How did he even have any way of knowing what she'd taken? "I'd better get home, see if there's anything they missed packing." He started to stand, saw Angela shaking her head.

"It's not that kind of item, big guy. Come with me."

It was a full two hours later by the time he finally pulled into their driveway. Angela had had 'ideas,' and he'd gone along with them, because, well, it would have been easier and more productive to argue with a wall than to resist her. He hoped some of it made a difference. Staring at the darkened house, he was too heartsick to judge.

On a sigh, he exited the car, started up the walk. As he deactivated the security, he thought of other nights he'd come home late from work while Brennan was on maternity leave, and for a moment, tried to pretend that was still the case. That she and Christine were inside, sleeping.

He stepped into the house and knew such thoughts were foolish. The house felt ...empty. Bereaved. So did he, he realized. They were gone, as much out of his reach as if they'd died. Big, beautiful house, full of so many memories...and nothing else. No warmth, no laughter, no family.

Shaking his head, he started up the stairs. He paused for a moment in the hall, puzzled by the door to the nursery being closed. Unless the baby was asleep, the door was generally open. Max must have closed it without thinking when he was packing. Booth opened it, stared over at the crib, his heart crumbling. Where were they? Were they safe? Were they asleep? Was the baby keeping Brennan awake when she would probably be driving tomorrow?

It was hard to believe that less than twenty-fours earlier they'd been together. Despite the stress and anxiety - or maybe because of it - they'd made love the night before, and fallen asleep wrapped in one another's arms. And now...he didn't know what state they were in, didn't know when he'd see them again.

He was terrified, in some dark corner of his mind, that that 'when' should be an 'if.'

He swallowed hard, rubbed his eyes. They would do this. He and the team would bring them home. Resolutely, he turned, went to their bedroom. Without looking at the bed, he stripped to his boxers then turned, went down stairs. The sofa in his man cave would be his bed until they were home.

* * *

Day 2

Booth beat Max to the coffee shop. Half the size of the Royal Diner, it was only blocks from their home, and catered to a clientele of local families rather than cops and lawyers. He understood why Max had chosen it, but it reminded him of Brennan. But then, what wouldn't in his life?

He sighed, rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept well, so he figured he might as well get up and get started with the day. Every day he devoted to the task was a day sooner they'd be home. Sleep would happen when it happened.

He sipped the hot, strong coffee that would have to substitute for rest, and planned the day. After the meeting with Max, he'd head to the Hoover and start going over the case files for Ethan's murder again. Somewhere in there was a thread he could tug, one that would lead to clearing Brennan.

In fact, he might as well get started on some of it now, he thought, tapping keys on his phone.

"Uh, hello?" Sweets sounded so confused, Booth checked his watch. Five-thirty was a perfectly reasonable time to get someone out of bed. At least when the someone was Sweets, and his own life had just gone to hell.

"Meet me in my office at 7:00AM."

"Booth?"

"No, it's the emperor. Are you going to be there or not?"

"You're not-"

"Brennan's on the run with Max, and Cullen reinstated me. You need to catch-up." To be fair, Booth hadn't called him the night before when he finally left the Hodgins'.

"Wait, what?"

Movement caught his eye and he saw Max coming where he sat in the corner. "Got to go. My office, 7:00AM."

He disconnected, watched Max settle across from him.

Max didn't bother with pleasantries. "Anyone following you?"

Annoyed that he would ask, he said, "No. You?"

Max shook his head. "I'm a wily old man. You're the one they'll be after."

"Let them come." He'd made a mistake in allowing Pelant manipulate him into the attack, something he wouldn't repeat. But if the sociopath thought Booth would sit back and let him win, he was in for a shock. "So what do you want?"

Max reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a bulky envelope. "Two burner phones. Don't use them but to call us, and only in an emergency - you clear her, you're arrested, that sort of thing. Don't use them anywhere that could be bugged. Not the house, not the car, not your office."

"Right." If he were arrested, would it really matter whether she knew or not? He stared hard at the old man, for just a moment, wanting to beg to be allowed to go with him. To damn them all to hell and go be with her. But there was Parker, and he couldn't leave the child who knew him for the one who was too young for it to matter. And, as hard as it was, there was something else he wanted more: a chance to raise their daughter as herself. Not whatever name they'd give her while they ran. So what came out in response to Max was, "What's the plan?"

"Better you don't know much of it. I'll meet up with them, we'll go where it's safe." Max looked around, then leaned in a bit. "Listen, I've got a few friends in this area. If someone comes up to you at some point and starts talking about Minnesota in the spring, listen carefully. They'll be from me."

Booth gave him an incredulous look. "Minnesota in the spring?"

"Don't knock it, it's gorgeous. It's where I met Tempe's mother."

"Right. Minnesota in the spring. Got it." He stared hard at the other man, then leaned in. "You'd better get that this isn't a game," he said quietly. "This isn't about you reliving your glory days. You keep them safe until I say it's safe for them to come home."

Max's eyes hardened but the easy smile remained. "Then you'd better get busy making it safe for them to come home."

"That's what I'm damn well going to do." He reached over and picked up a bag he'd placed on the seat next to him. Sliding it across the table, he said, "For Bones and Christine."

Max took it without looking inside. "Got it." He looked at his watch, then stood. "I'd better go." He nodded toward the phones. "Emergencies only."

Booth stood as well. "Right. And Minnesota." There was a hundred other things he could say, but he settled on, "Keep them safe."

"I will." He turned and walked out.

Booth watched him go, and wondered how long it would be before he saw him again.

* * *

_She was in the club, preparing to sing, when she saw the gun, saw Booth move in front of her. But it wasn't Pam who fired the weapon, but Pelant. And he didn't hit Booth's chest, but the center of his forehead._

_And then she was in the lab, holding a skull with that bullet hole, knowing it was Booth's, while Pelant stood across from her, smiling._

"No!" Brennan jerked awake, sat up in the bed. Shaking, she heard a whimper, and for a moment, couldn't say whether it was her or Christine. It came again, and she shoved the images back. The baby needed her.

She stumbled to the portable crib, picked up her squirming daughter. "Shhh..." She rubbed her cheek against the baby's head, felt the dampness from her tears. "There is no such thing as precognitive dreams," she said. "The future is undetermined, and Pelant could not kill your father in such a manner. The dream was an expression of my fears, that's all." Not real. She glanced at the phone, the desire to pick it up, dial his number, a physical ache she couldn't explain.

Christine had quieted in response to her mother's voice, and Brennan turned, settled back on the bed with her. She'd read theories expressing both approval and disapproval of infants sleeping with their parents, but at the moment, she was too tired and distressed to care. She needed to touch Christine as much as the baby seemed to need her.

"This is why deep emotional attachments are unwise," she murmured. "Nine months of sleeping beside him appears to have destroyed my ability to sleep comfortably alone." The baby gurgled, and Brennan sighed.

There was no point in attempting to return to sleep, The dream had been too disturbing. Despite the fact that she'd actually experienced watching Booth be shot in front for her, the part of the dream that had seemed most real was Pelant in the lab.

"He can apparently do anything and go anywhere, so why wouldn't that seem real in a dream?" she said to Christine. "But he is not actually omnipotent. No one is." She frowned. "Well, your father would say that God is. I do not agree, but it seems only fair to note that difference of opinion since he's not here to represent his views."

In response, Christine stuck her fist in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

Dawn was just breaking when she went into pay for gas at the large station/convenience store on the edge of town. With Christine sleeping in a sling across her chest, Brennan added a large coffee and a banana to her total, then picked up a newspaper as well.

It wasn't until she stopped several hours later to feed Christine that she flipped the paper over and saw her own photo toward the bottom of the page. She froze, too shocked at first to even read the accompanying headline: "Best-selling author flees murder charge."

She skimmed the rest of the article, her fear growing. Why had she not anticipated this? It was somewhat sensationalized, of course, and emphasized her novels and the film that was in production over her work at the Jeffersonian, which, according to the journalist, she did in her spare time when she wasn't writing the Kathy Reichs books. But the gist of article was accurate, and damning: She'd been about to be charged with the murder of Ethan Sawyer and had fled D.C. with her daughter.

Christine finished and began to fuss, so Brennan lifted her to her shoulder while she attempted to assess the situation. The one thing in her favor was that the photo was a touched up shot the publisher used for book jackets taken right after her return from Maluku when she'd had bangs. She'd hadn't looked like that in reality the day the photo was taken, and now, exhausted and on the road, with a different hair style, she looked even less like that woman.

But she was traveling alone with an infant girl. It would help once she met up with her father, as the article didn't reference him, and she could stay out of view of the public more. She still had nearly thirty-six hours, though, before their first attempt at a meeting.

Fortunately, she estimated only another six or seven hours of driving time. They were meeting outside Toledo, Ohio, which, by interstate and optimal conditions, was less than nine hours from D.C. But on the highways and rural roads Max had mapped out, they'd estimated it would take closer to fifteen, and Max had thought trying to push farther than that with Christine unwise.

The baby had done well, so far, Brennan judged, but the trip was affecting her. She wasn't used to being ignored for such long stretches while she was awake. She looked down at her now. "We've got approximately six hours of driving left before we reach the hotel where we're to meet your grandfather tomorrow evening. I believe we'll stop in the next town and I'll do what I can to change my appearance. Then we'll leave early in the morning for the final push to Toledo."

Christine burped, and Brennan figured that could count as approval.

Outside Canton, Ohio, she found a shopping area that included a Target. She suspected her father wouldn't approve, but the risk seemed worth it and at the moment, she was making the decisions. She selected hair dye, reading glasses, a hat, and food, and was pleased to find several books on child development as well. "They're not of the highest academic standard," she murmured to Christine. "But hopefully they won't be entirely inaccurate. Unfortunately, I don't see any books on pure mathematics at all. I'm certain that's simply an oversight."

As she was heading toward the registers to check out, she saw the baby section, and detoured. It wasn't wise to linger, but she was always drawn to new clothing ensembles for Christine. When she'd justified it to Booth by noting how fast their daughter was growing, he'd laughed at her.

But it wasn't the dresses she found herself studying, but rather the clothing obviously intended to be worn by boys. Frowning, she stared at a miniature Cincinnati Reds jersey. "Your father would not be pleased at seeing you in that rather than a Phillies brand," she murmured. But people looking for brunette Temperance Brennan and her daughter would be less likely to see her in a woman with red hair traveling with her son.

She selected three outfits designed for boys – though she didn't see any reason Christine couldn't wear something decorated with dinosaurs, tractors, or the color blue – and skipped the sports jersey completely.

She paid and left the store, feeling relieved to be once more on the road. It took over an hour of driving, including some backtracking and going well off their route, to find another hotel that met Max's requirements: no chains, quiet, but not so much so that a woman traveling alone with a baby would be particularly noticeable.

It was nearly 3PM by the time she got settled. Christine was awake, so Brennan put her in the stroller and parked it next to the vanity so she could interact with her while she dyed her hair. After some thought, she'd decided that something different but still within a normal range for her skin tone would be best. There was no point in changing the color if it only said, 'hair color disguised!' to everyone who saw her.

As a result, an hour or so later, her hair was 'Autumn Flame Auburn.' She modeled it for Christine, pleased. "The name of the color is rather dreadful, but it looks acceptable – different, but not as unnatural as black or blonde would be." Staring at herself in the mirror, she touched her hair. And wondered what Booth would think of it.

* * *

Day 3

She was a fugitive from justice, wrongly accused of killing a man, and yet it was neither of those things that made the following day one of the worst in recent memory.

Christine cried. Continually.

Actually, that wasn't an entirely accurate term. Crying was stressful and heartbreaking, but the baby only did that when she was taking a break from screaming as if someone was poking hot knives into her skin. Brennan would find a place a pull over, crawl into the back seat, take her out of the car seat and cuddle her, and the screaming would subside into whimpers. While Brennan held her, she'd calm down.

But only until she was put back in the seat.

She didn't appear ill. She didn't have an elevated body temperature and her diet and bowel movements were normal. But she was very obviously distressed at being alone in the backseat, and Brennan didn't know what to do. "There's really nothing I _can_ do," she said to her currently quiet daughter. "We're only an hour or so from the hotel where Dad will meet us, and we have to continue driving. If he meets us, further travel will be easier because I can at least be in the back with you." She refused to consider what she would do if Max didn't arrive as scheduled.

"Please, Christine," she said, too tired and stressed to feel foolish for begging the baby to do something she wasn't cognitively developed enough to make a choice about. "Please calm down and let me drive."

She placed her back in the seat, and sat for a few minutes, stroking her cheek and talking quietly to her until Christine fell asleep. "Maybe I was wrong to bring you," she whispered. "It's hard enough being apart from your father, I can't imagine being away from you as well. I find the thought unbearable. But maybe it was selfish of me to do so. Maybe a good mother would have left you behind." Like hers had? She shook her head, unable to face that question.

Her hand still cupping her daughter's cheek, she leaned back, closed her eyes. What she'd, she'd done. Regrets would be pointless.

When it was clear the baby was asleep, Brennan returned to the driver's seat, pulled the car out and onto the road…and angry shrieks erupted from the back.

Brennan cried along with her.

By the time she pulled into parking area of the hotel Max had chosen, Brennan was more on edge than she ever recalled being before. It was the worst possible time to discover she couldn't compartmentalize her emotions when her daughter was screaming with distress over something Brennan couldn't do anything about.

Shaking, she parked at one end of the lot and rushed around to unbuckle the baby and lift her out of the seat and into her arms. "Shhh," she whispered, patting her. "We're here now, and can take a break. I'll feed you, and give you a bath, and we'll listen to some music until your grandfather arrives."

Christine's cries slowed, and she hiccupped. Brennan shifted her and slipped her into the sling, fastened it. The baby relaxed more, apparently understanding in some way that that meant she wasn't going back into the car seat.

Wiping her own face with some tissues, Brennan sighed as her own stress levels began to drop, and started toward the office. "I don't know what time he'll arrive," she murmured. "Sometime this evening, he said." If he didn't come, she'd be in trouble. Neither she nor the baby could survive three more days like this one.

The inn keeper smiled at her. "Looks like you've got a tired little boy, there."

Startled, Brennan nearly corrected him, then noticed the blue shirt visible through the sling. Apparently, her subterfuge was working. "Yes, we're both quite ready for a break," she said.

"I'll give you the room at the end," he said. "in case it gets busy later."

The room was similar to the ones they'd stayed in the last two nights, and Brennan sighed in relief at the thought of being able to rest for a little while. She unpacked the car, then settled on the bed next to Christine…who was now sound asleep. "You couldn't have slept like that an hour ago? Really?"

She put pillows around the baby, then took a shower, allowing the water to wash away the stress of the last hours. There had to be a way of traveling with her daughter even if she had to continue on alone. But how?

Acknowledging that for the moment, she was out of ideas, she finished the shower, dressed in yoga pants and Booth's jersey, and crawled onto the bed with Christine. Curled up against her daughter, she slept.

The room was dark when pounding on the door awakened her, plunging her into terror. They'd found her and would separate her from Christine. Who knew how long the baby would be with strangers before they reunited her with Booth?

The knock sounded again, and, she sat up, shoved her hair out of her face. Not someone pounding, but a reasonable knock. She turned on the light, automatically checking to see that the baby was still sleeping before stumbling to the door. She peered through the peek hole, nearly collapsed against it when she saw her father standing there.

It was with immeasurable relief that she opened the door as he was about to knock again. "Dad!"

"Hey, sweetheart." He studied her as she closed and locked the door behind him. "Nice hair."

"What? Oh, the color." Brennan turned, went to get a drink of water. "It seemed wise, given that they're looking for me." Wanting desperately to ask about Booth, she instead filled her father in on the last several days.

"Dressing her as a boy is good. That's a smart move. I knew you'd be good at this," he grinned. "You think fast on your feet. Always have."

She didn't want to be good at being a fugitive. She wanted to go home. She wanted to work cases with Booth, attend the mommy classes that Angela had dragged her to. Her throat suddenly clogged, she took another drink. "We're not going to be able to travel endlessly." She told her father about Christine's screaming.

"Yeah, you didn't travel well as a baby, either," he said. "But we're only going a few more hours from here, at least for now, and we'll do it in one car. I know a guy near here who'll buy the car you've been driving. We'll switch to what I've got, and you can ride in the back with her."

Knowing more about his plans, where they were going from here, was probably important. Instead, she asked what she really wanted to know. "How is Booth?"

"He's fine," he said. "You know him –already gearing up to catch that bastard."

It sounded right, but somehow off, at the same time, and she frowned.

"Where are your keys? I'll bring my stuff in and move what's in your car to mine. I've got something for you from him," he added as an afterthought.

In minutes, he'd swapped things around to his satisfaction and carried in his duffel bag and a brown paper bag, which he handed to her. "I'm going to go sell the car so we can leave early in the morning. Might take me an hour or two. I'll bring back something to eat, too."

Her eyes on the bag, Brennan only nodded, and barely heard him as he walked out.

For the first time since driving away from Booth, she faced what she'd been afraid to consider. What if he really didn't understand her decision? He'd said he'd go with her if she ran, though he worried it would make her look guilty. What if he felt betrayed, or thought she didn't love him?

There was absolutely no point in speculating. He would either understand that she was trusting him as she'd trusted no one else, or he wouldn't. On a deep breath, she opened the bag and reached inside.

Whatever she'd expected, it wasn't an envelope, an MP3 player with a screen in a case, and three childrens' books.

Puzzled, she opened the envelope, opened the sheet of paper, and read.

_Bones,_

_I've been staring at this piece of paper for 30 minutes and still don't have a clue what to write. Remember that night after the blizzard when I told you I was angry, but not at you?_

_I'm just mad that we can't seem to catch a break. I want to go back to the house and find you and Christine there, asleep, not to go to sleep myself wondering where the hell you are and if you're okay. We agreed not to let that bastard change our lives, and he did, anyway._

_Hell, maybe I am mad at you for just leaving that way. Or maybe that's part of it, at least. But that's the irrational – to use your favorite word – part, because I get why you did it. And maybe that little bit of mad made it easier to convince Flynn I don't know where you are._

_But I love you, and I heard what you said. I know you love me, too. We'll figure this out, get through it._

_It's not much, not enough, but Cullen came out swinging in our corner. He reinstated me, ordered me to clear your name. And Angela's still working on some things as well._

_I'm probably sounding insane. I'm pretty sure I looked that way when I got to the Hodgins' house tonight after leaving the Hoover. While I was updating them, Max called, told me to meet him tomorrow morning._

_I think the hardest part of this is not knowing how long it will take for us to get this bastard. So Angela came up with this idea which might be sort of lame, but…she recorded me reading a couple of Michael's books, and put it on the player. The screen's probably too small to really see me (she says you can transfer the file to your laptop if you want) but we thought if Christine hears my voice, maybe she won't forget me. I know she's too young to really get the books and stuff, but …play them for her sometimes, okay? Maybe you can hold the books and turn the pages._

_You're a great mom, just like I knew you'd be. Take care of her, and know I love you both._

_Booth_

Clutching the letter in one hand, Brennan turned on the mp3 player and saw there were only three files on it. She laid down next to Christine, pressed 'play' and cried while listening to the man she loved read Guess How Much I Love You to the daughter he didn't know when he'd see again.


	2. June

A/N: I wanted to post this last weekend, and life had other ideas. (*Grumble*) Many thanks to some1tookmyname for the beta, and to Natesmama for being the world's best legal resource.

* * *

Booth stared at Parker's face on the monitor. "You listen to what your grandparents say, okay, bub?"

His son's eye roll was clearly visible in the Skype window. "I always do, Dad. They're cool."

"I know you do. But it's really important right now."

"So the creep can't get me. Yeah, I know." His expression turned troubled. "Do you think they're okay, Dad? What if he's already hurt them?"

It was Booth's worst nightmare, that his partner and daughter weren't out there somewhere with Max, safe, But he couldn't tell his son that. Still, what should he say? What _could_ he say, knowing that Pelant was probably listening? He'd become nearly as paranoid as Hodgins used to be, at least where technology was concerned. Shrugging that off, he settled on what he himself was clinging to. "No, he's not found them. He'd have to let us know if he had, or there wouldn't be any fun in it for him."

Parker nodded, his face still far too serious. "You'll be careful, too, right, Dad?"

Booth acted affronted. "Hey, it's me! Your old man. I know how to take care of myself."

Another eye roll. "I know, it's just...you're all alone there."

The wave of loneliness that washed over him at the words made it difficult for Booth to speak for a moment. Then he saw Sweets walking through the bullpen toward his office. "Nah, I'm not alone. I've got Dr. Sweets, and the squints."

"Well, okay." Someone Booth couldn't see said something, and Parker nodded. "Gotta go, Dad. We're going swimming."

"Be careful, and call if you need anything. Mind your grandparents!'

"Will do. Love you. Bye!"

With that, the screen went black. Even knowing that Sweets was watching him, Booth reached out, touched the monitor. "Love you, too," he murmured.

"Sounds like he's having a good time with Rebecca's parents," Sweets said.

"Yeah, they're good people. He's always liked spending time with them."

"Any hint of trouble?"

"That would mean Pelant's targeting him? No. Mike's not seen anything, and his radar's pretty good."

"Rebecca's dad was a homicide detective, right?"

"Forty years on the job," Booth said. "He's only been retired a few years. I think he likes feeling useful, if you want the truth. But if you're right about Pelant, having Parker out of DC, with people who both love him and are smart enough to watch out for him is a good thing. I'm glad Rebecca suggested it. I didn't know what to say when she asked if Pelant might target Parker."

Sweets looked thoughtful. "She believes Dr. Brennan is innocent."

"Yeah." They might butt heads occasionally, but his ex wasn't stupid. "She knows Bones well enough to know it's all bullshit." He looked back at the blank monitor. "He's safe in Florida, right?" Sweets had reassured him a number of times on the subject, but he needed to hear it again. "Pelant will leave him alone?"

"If he gets bored, or frustrated enough by not being able to pursue his plans with Dr. Brennan, he might hassle them in some way, let you know he knows where Parker is, or could find him if he wants. But all the murders have been committed in DC, by Pelant directly. Nothing in the profile suggests he'll leave DC. He needs his equipment, needs his routine."

"You'd better be right." He yanked his mind away from Parker. "What have you got?"

"They found the log book at the psych facility. The chief psychiatrist mentioned it while we were discussing the other patients."

"And yet Dr. Noble didn't see fit to tell us. Or did she call Flynn?"

"It was only found this morning, shoved into a drawer at the security station."

"Let's go see what she has to say."

* * *

An hour later, he was staring down the psych facility director in her office. It was hard not to remember the last time he'd been here, when Brennan had been with him, but he was learning not to let his mind go in that particular direction. "Dr. Noble, we understand the log book from the security station has been located. I'd like to look at it." He kept his tone even when he addressed the facility director.

"It was discovered this morning. As I've told you before, Agent Booth, the log's whereabouts have not been a high priority for me. Dealing with the fallout from one of our patients being brutally murdered by your..." her voice faded in response to whatever she saw in his eyes, and she cleared her throat. "Being brutally murdered has been challenging. The video recording supercedes the log book, and when we couldn't find it after the night that Mr. Sawyer disappeared, locating it wasn't important."

"Where was it?" Already knowing the answer, he asked the question anyway. He didn't like the woman and didn't see any reason to make anything easy for her.

"Mixed in with some papers that had been filed in a drawer in the security station." She turned, handed him the log book from her desk.

Booth immediately thumbed through to the night Ethan had been released into the regular ward, and skimmed the entries. There were several after the time stamp on the video had shown Brennan entering the facility. But her signature wasn't there. He flipped back two weeks, to the night she'd said she'd been there, and felt a fierce satisfaction when he saw her name.

He handed the log to Sweets before turning back to Dr. Noble. Her lips were pressed together and before he could say anything, she said, "The video feed is the backbone of our security. The log is supplemental."

"Obviously, since your guards don't care whether anyone signs in or not, and can't actually keep track of the book."

"Agent Booth," she snapped. "We have been more than cooperative with the FBI on this matter. The individual who committed this act would be under arrest if she hadn't run. I am under no obligation to continue to be insulted by you as you try to clear your partner." She stood. "This interview is finished, and there will be no more such visits. And Dr. Sweets will cease demanding access to our patients."

Booth stood as well, and barely heard Sweets quietly say his name. He gave the woman a feral smile. "You're confused about how the justice system works. That log book - the one which doesn't match your video feed - is now evidence. The discrepancies between it and the video footage will have to be explained." He turned to Sweets. "What do you think, Sweets? Crappy security, guards who don't pay any attention...anyone could come and go."

Sweets didn't miss a beat. "If the only record is the video feed, there's still no record of exactly who is entering the facility, only a picture of them doing it."

"Could be anyone. Looks like this lack of cooperation is an attempt to cover their own incompetence. Just the kind of story the news likes." Booth turned back to the fuming director.

"You're harassing me."

"You can't have it both ways, Doc. Either Dr. Brennan was here that night, and your security guards screwed the pooch by not having her sign in, or she wasn't here, and they didn't do anything wrong."

Her mouth opened and closed, but she didn't say anything, and Booth pushed on. "My partner didn't murder Sawyer. She doesn't have the skills to have compromised your system in that way. But the man who did that, and killed Sawyer, is still loose."

Dr. Noble blew out a breath of frustration. "Fine. You may have the log, and Dr. Sweets may continue to interview such patients as our chief psychiatrist judges stable enough for such an experience."

* * *

In the SUV an hour later, Sweets cautiously looked at Booth. "That log book won't..."

"Clear Bones? No. Not when that video feed is out there. But we may not find a smoking gun here. There may not be one thing that will conclusively prove she didn't do it. It may be more a lot of little things that don't add up. We'll keep looking for the big finish, but for now, anything that chips away at what Pelant's set up is a win."

"What did the security guard say when you interviewed him?"

"He remembers the log being at the desk when the system went down, but not when it disappeared. They couldn't find it at the start of the next shift and started a new one without thinking much about it until we started asking to see it. He doesn't have an explanation for why it doesn't match the video. The guard that was on the desk that night doesn't remember Bones coming in, but that doesn't help us much."

"You think Pelant hid the log book?"

"Nah. If he'd thought to take it, it would still be gone. He either didn't know they had a manual log, or figured it wouldn't matter for exactly the reason it doesn't. A jury will always believe a video recording over a log book, particularly when the security guards are so lax: 'he can't remember where he laid it,' 'he doesn't think Dr. Brennan came in.' They're useless. But the log is a piece that doesn't fit Pelant's puzzle. Find enough of them and we can build a different picture." He glanced at Sweets. "What about you?"

"Dr. Adamason says there are three patients who were on Ethan's ward who are stable enough for me to talk to. The other two, he's going to let me observe but they're so far in their own reality he thinks it's unlikely they'll tell us anything."

"Puzzle pieces, Sweets. Puzzle pieces."

They fell silent, but after a few moments, Booth caught the sideways looks Sweets was giving him. He began mentally to count, and was surprised that he made it to fifty before Sweets opened his mouth to speak. Well, he had been counting fast.

"How are you doing?"

"I'm fine." It was an automatic question to what he thought was probably an automatic question on Sweets' part, at least based on how often he asked it. But what was he supposed to say? He was getting up every morning, he was doing the job. What more did anyone want?

"No, you're not."

Rage unexpectedly curled inside him, and he gripped the steering wheel a little harder. He knew Sweets. Knew he didn't mean to sound as asinine as he did. And still the urge to let fly was there, just under the surface.

Maybe he wasn't doing as well as he'd thought.

"I mean, your family is-"

"Sweets. Stop." They were passing a grocery store, and he thought of going in and buying a bag of frozen peas. It had worked once before. "Change the topic."

Something in his tone, or perhaps it was the bone white of his knuckles, worked in place of the peas, and Sweets fell silent. For nearly a minute, by Booth's count.

"Have you talked to Dr. Saroyan?"

He was going to stock frozen vegetables in the SUV.

"We talked yesterday, Sweets."

"No, I mean really talked."

"I opened my mouth, words came out. She opened hers, words came out. That's the way it works."

Grateful that they were pulling into the Hoover garage, he parked and looked over at the younger man. "Everything's fine, Sweets, except that Pelant's still out there, free, and Bones is a fugitive. So let's go see if we can work on fixing that annoying little problem."

Sweets' frown clearly showed he wasn't buying any of it, but he nodded and opened his door.

He was right not to believe the part about Cam, Booth thought as they started toward the elevator. The two of them had spoken exactly twice in the three weeks since Brennan had left. Brief, perfunctory calls that didn't begin to touch on, well, anything.

But he'd be damned if he'd tell Sweets that.

* * *

With a casual glance around, Brennan seated herself in front of one of the public library computers. They were living in Indianapolis, at least for the time being. The problem with small towns and rural areas, according to Max, was that people were more likely to pay attention to their neighbors. And the problem with big cities was that residents were more used to seeing celebrities in them, so if they saw someone who reminded them of Temperance Brennan, it would seem more possible that it could be her. But in a small city in the midwest, people wouldn't expect to see her, and so wouldn't.

The logic of it escaped her, but he'd had a place here, a small house in an unremarkable neighborhood not far from a city university. That, too, Max said was important. University areas saw a lot of turnover, another reason people wouldn't notice them. Brennan had argued that point a bit, pointing out that such an area wouldn't notice _students_. A woman, an infant, and an elderly man weren't exactly typical for a university area.

But the benefits outweighed the risks, and there would be risks everywhere they went.

She mostly stayed home with Christine, while he went out to get groceries and supplies - from a different store each time, which he said was another benefit to a more populated area. But a few times each week, Brennan ventured out to a local library. There were several branches within a thirty minute drive of their house, and while she couldn't risk applying for an actual card, which required more address verification, access to computers only required a piece of ID.

Thanks to Max, she had plenty of that.

Today, she was 'Anne Summers.' She'd only been to this branch once before, but that had been a morning visit, and now, late in the afternoon, she saw no one she recognized from the first visit.

Avoid being seen too often in the same place, avoid doing anything remarkable or memorable. Don't stay too long.

She was careful with her activity on the computer as well. Anne was from Missouri, she'd decided, and was a fan of the St. Louis Cardinals. So she'd usually begin a session with a search of the sports news sites, clicking on anything having to do with the team, before moving on. Reading about sports teams that she had no interest in was tedious, but if something in one of her other searches somehow caught Pelant's attention, he'd hopefully be more likely to assume it was a coincidence if nothing else from that computer session looked like something Temperance Brennan would search for.

She now knew a distressing amount about the Kardashians, as well. And Lindsay Lohan.

When she'd finished skimming the celebrity sites, she'd turn to news, first local coverage, then national, including DC. She never did a direct search, but would skim anything having to do with her case.

After all, someone interested in the Kardashians would probably want the latest information on Temperance Brennan, fugitive author.

There was very little news, though apparently someone had insisted to the police that they'd seen her in Houston at one point. Maybe Max was right about the big cities.

Eventually, she'd turn to a parenting site Angela frequented. Brennan had thought long and hard about a user name for the forum, and finally settled on 'SmartMamaNora.' Shortly after Christine had been born, Angela had come over one day with The Thin Man films and forced Brennan to watch them, insisting that there were similarities between the fictional couple and Booth and Brennan.

As usual, Angela was being highly imaginative, as Brennan saw no similarities between them at all. But she had enjoyed the films, and that was something she and Angela had shared that Pelant might not know.

So several times a week, she logged into the site and went to the the chat area. Angela, who went by the moniker, 'SexyArtist' was still active on the site, but had not yet been in the chat room when Brennan was.

She wasn't there today, either, but two others were, so Brennan participated in the conversation in a casual way while reading some of the discussion threads. It was important to appear as if nothing was out of the ordinary - she was simply a mother engaging in discourse with other parents. Remembering to use colloquialisms and simpler words was the most difficult part.

Discovering a thread discussing the effects on infants when a military parent was on deployment for long periods, she nearly missed the flashing symbol indicating someone new had joined the chat.

SexyArtist. _Angela._

Brennan froze, suddenly unsure. She wanted desperately to identify herself and say hello, and knew she didn't dare. But even sticking to her plan to see if she could make contact without explicitly identifying herself suddenly seemed dangerous. Would Angela figure out who she was? Would they actually be able to communicate? Was there any chance that Pelant was monitoring this parenting board? Would he see something to make him suspicious?

She had to try. She had to have some way of knowing how Booth was doing. So she added her greeting to the that of the other two.

_SmartMamaNora: Hello. _

For a moment, there was no response.

_SexyArtist: You're new here, aren't you?_

_SmartMamaNora: Yes. It's a very informative community._

One of the other participants inserted a picture of a smiling face into the chat window, and Brennan frowned, uncertain whether she was being made fun of. She couldn't afford for her lack of social skills to give her away.

Clearly, she had to be more cautious. She spent the next few minutes simply observing the conversation, which moved from a discussion about preparing a child for kindergarten to infants who didn't travel well. Apparently the other two people in the chat had several children each, of different ages.

Before she could decide whether or not to comment, the other two announced they had to leave to attend to other matters and suddenly Angela was the only one left in the chat with her. Afraid her friend would leave, she typed another message.

_SmartMamaNora: My daughter doesn't do long distance car trips well._

A long moment passed.

_SexyArtist: How old is she? How long of a trip?_

_SmartMamaNora: She's fourteen weeks old._

Another long silence. Was Angela thinking about how to respond, still trying to decide if it was Brennan, or simply doing something else? Maybe it hadn't even occurred to her that it could be Brennan she was chatting with. Maybe this was a foolish, risky idea.

_SexyArtist: That's a challenging age. My little boy is nearly eleven months old. The car usually puts him to sleep, but we've never taken him on a long trip. Maybe the next long trip, someone could sit in the back with your daughter?_

_SmartMamaNora: Maybe._

_SexyArtist_:_ So what other threads were you checking out here? It's a good community._

_SmartMamaNora_:_ I was reading the section about parents who are deployed with the military, the effects of separation._

A long beat.

_SexyArtist_: _ Is your husband overseas?_

Brennan frowned again. What if Angela wasn't getting it at all? What could she possibly say that would confirm it, but not seem odd to Pelant if he was monitoring Angela's actions?

_SmartMamaNora_: _Her father's an army Ranger._ [Well, that was true. Booth still referred to himself as a Ranger.] _We've got some recordings of him reading children's books that I play for her every night. She responds to his voice, but I still worry._

_SexyArtist_: _Ah... She likes those recordings, does she?_

There was something about the way Angela worded it that Brennan suddenly knew, with absolute, inexplicable certainty, that Angela knew who she was.

_SmartMamaNora_: _She does. It often soothes her - and me, as well, actually. I miss her father._

_SexyArtist_:_ I'll bet you do._

Another pause.

_SexyArtist_: _We've got a good friend who's separated from his wife and kid. It's hard on him. He misses them._

Puzzled, Brennan stared at the screen. Ah! Angela was talking about them, but was using 'wife' to confuse Pelant. Then the words themselves registered, and she froze. 'Separated' was a term used to describe couples who were no longer together, no longer committed to one another, often coming before divorce. Pressure on her chest made it hard to breathe. This wasn't that. He knew that. He'd said so in that note he gave to her father.

But it was hard to argue with the literal meaning of the term, and she sat there, unsure what to say next. It sounded so ...lonely.

The long pause must have clued her friend in, because another comment appeared.

_SexyArtist: He's counting on them getting back together at some point. But it's still hard. _

What about Parker? Was Booth seeing him? She wanted to ask, but didn't know how.

_SmartMamaNora: Does he have any other family? _

_SexyArtist: His other son is out of town with family for the summer. But my husband's with him tonight. They hang sometimes, with another friend. _

The pressure eased, and her fingers trembled only a little as she replied.

_SmartMamaNora_: _It's good that he has friends. It's hard to be alone._

A tear landed on the back of Brennan's hand, and it was only then she realized she was weeping. Swallowing, and reaching into her bag for a tissue, she hurriedly wiped her face.

_SmartMamaNora_:_ I need to go. It was nice chatting with you_.

_SexyArtist_: _You, too. How often are you around the board?_

_SmartMamaNora_: _A few times a week. I'm too busy to be on more often than that. _

_SexyArtist_:_ I get that. We've got a big project going on at work that's keeping me working all hours. But hey, this was fun. So if you know you're going to be around, send me a message through the forum messaging system and I'll see if I can check in at the same time. _

_SmartMamaNora_: _I don't always know when I'll have time to be here, but I'll do that._

_SexyArtist_: _Sounds like a plan. Take care of yourself._

_SmartMamaNora_: _You do the same. _

Even knowing it wasn't wise - the briefer they kept these exchanges, the better - Brennan struggled with wanting to say something else. But before she could figure out what, Angela signed out of chat, leaving her alone. She quietly clicked the windows closed and logged off, then sat and stared at the blank screen for a long time.

* * *

Booth watched the pattern of shadows on the ceiling over him. Although no light leaked in from outside - not that there was light yet, anyway - the power strip for the electronics in the man cave cast a weird glow.

He'd spent too many nights studying those patterns, waiting for the night to be far enough gone that he could call it over and get up. He knew that if he looked, his watch would say it was about 4:45AM. The internal clock that had been so honed during his Army Ranger years was back and sharp as ever.

Not a particularly useful skill, but he might as well know how much time he wasn't spending sleeping. Giving up, he got up, dressed in shorts and running shoes, and went out for an early morning run. He'd always liked to run, liked the sense of power and freedom it gave him. But since Brennan had left, there was an edge of desperation to his runs, a desire to move just a little faster. Fast enough to escape ...everything.

To push himself hard enough that there wasn't room in his head for anything more than the next step, the next breath. To be free, for a little while, of thoughts that always circled back to what they could have done differently. To what they _should _have done differently.

To whether Brennan and Christine were still okay.

To whether they'd ever be able to come home.

By the time he finally circled back to the house - he no longer thought of it as home - he was physically exhausted, but the demons had been silenced. His mind was clear enough for another day of searching for the evidence they needed.

He loped up the steps, and went still at the sight of the piece of paper taped on the door. Had it been there when he left? Maybe. He couldn't remember. A glance around the quiet neighborhood showed nothing out of the ordinary. No cars, no slight movement of shadows suggesting someone was watching. He peeled it off, saw his name printed on a standard printer label: Seeley Booth.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, the words printed in the same font: _They're fine. They miss you. She plays the recordings of the books you gave her every day, says your voice soothes both of them. _

That was it. He turned the page over, desperate for more, and then, torn between relief and fury that someone, somewhere, was in contact with his family and it wasn't him, crumpled the note in his hand.

Entering the house, he paused at the kitchen island and smoothed it back out. It wasn't enough, but it was something. It was more than he'd had before.

_"Your voice soothes both of them."_

* * *

Despite his early rising, Angela and Hodgins were at the diner when we arrived for their breakfast meeting. Shortly after Brennan's departure, he'd realized that a day seldom went by when he wasn't having a meal of some kind with one or more of the squints. He should probably be touched by it, but since it only emphasized everything currently wrong in his life, it mostly irritated him.

But a guy still had to eat.

He settled across from them, then pulled out the note. "This was taped to my door this morning."

Hodgins reached for it, but Angela took a casual sip of coffee, and Booth stared at her with narrowed eyes. Her gaze back was innocent.

And he knew. Angela was _never_ innocent. Even when she was. He opened his mouth to confront her, and saw in her expression that she knew he knew.

And they couldn't talk about it. As long as he didn't know for certain, he wasn't doing anything wrong by not telling the bureau that a lab employee was in communication with a fugitive.

Hodgins cleared this throat. "It was on your door? Do you think it's legit?"

Booth glanced at Angela, who took another drink of coffee, and tried harder to look innocent.

"Yeah, I think it's legit." And there was no point in discussing it further. He reached for the coffee the waitress had poured for him. "You got anything new?"

"I went to see Zack."

Booth gave him a sharp look. "I thought you said he wouldn't be able to help."

"I said I thought the math would be beyond even him," Hodgins corrected. "But I thought he should know, if for no other reason than to warn him."

Annoyed that he hadn't thought of that risk, Booth nodded. "Good thinking."

Hodgins shrugged. "No point in taking chances, not when Pelant killed Ethan. But while I was there, I showed him the math notes and asked for his opinion on it. He wants to study it, of course, but more to the point, he gave me the name of a guy at GWU who he thinks might be able to help. The only problem is how to approach the guy without getting him killed, but I've got an idea on that, too."

"And?"

"I'm going to go visit an old friend of mine who's in the chemistry department there, and get lost in the math building while doing so."

Was all the subterfuge really necessary? It seemed ridiculous, somehow. But even if he did suspect Hodgins might be enjoying that aspect of things, they were right to be careful. Pelant clearly had no limits on who he'd go after.

He looked over at Angela. "Anything on your front?" _Besides that you're in contact, somehow, with Brennan?_

"Progress, but it's slow. We got an anti-virus setup for the library to identify any malicious code - by which we mean anything that shouldn't be there - on an RFID tag. Part of what the program does is identify materials that have a compromised tag. And there we hit a glitch."

"What kind of glitch?"

"There are twenty-two books in the system that have code on them that were never checked out to Pelant."

"He'll use that to create doubt should it ever go to trial," Hodgins said.

Angela shrugged. "Only if we never break the code."

"You're thinking some of the programs have to do with wiping out his history on the other books?" Booth asked.

She beamed at him. "Exactly. And I'm going to break the code. Or someone is."

"What do you mean?"

"I uploaded a fragment of it to a programming forum. Remember when I said the coding language wasn't intended to be used for real programs? That it was more a theoretical, esoteric exercise?

"Yeah?"

"Uploading to that site...geek feeding frenzy," Hodgins smirked.

"Exactly. It's driving them crazy that someone actually used it. Some of the most brilliant coders in the world are trying to figure it out. I'm not sure, but I think the guy who invented the language is even giving it a crack."

"Setting them loose on it is what's brilliant, babe." Hodgins grinned at his wife and she gave him a smug look back.

"It is," Booth said slowly. "But both of you be careful. He killed Krane because he was going to talk; he killed Ethan. Maybe that was primarily to frame Brennan, but we don't know what Pelant will do if he feels really threatened. I'm guessing having the world's most genius programmers breaking his code would qualify, though." He looked at Hodgins. "So will consulting with the math geek. He might go after them - or he might just go after you."

* * *

There were different kinds of paranoia, Brennan had realized. There was Hodgins' kind, where behind every news story lurked a conspiracy, and there was her father's kind, where you collected safe houses in different locations, 'just in case.' When she'd asked him how many he had, he'd only smiled and said, 'not that many.' He didn't seem to understand that even one was bizarre.

She didn't know how he'd come by it, whose name it was in, how long he'd had it, or who'd been taking care of it prior to their arrival. She didn't really want to know.

But there were worst places they could be.

Like the rest of the house, the back yard was small. But it had a privacy fence and trees, which allowed her to sit out on the equally minuscule patio with Christine and pretend that things were normal.

From the moment she'd realized she was on her own at age fifteen, that neither her parents nor Russ were coming back, she'd made a point of not indulging in pretending things were other than they were. Wanting what wasn't didn't serve a purpose.

But now, with Christine curled up on Brennan's chest, her fist shoved in her mouth, Brennan couldn't seem to help closing her eyes and imagining, just for a moment, that Booth was somewhere nearby, that he'd come out and tease her about her lack of progress on the book she was reading before leaning over to kiss both her and their daughter.

The problem with indulging in the fantasy on even a short term basis was that it made the routine of the days without him that much harder. Careful of the baby, she shifted, reached for the math theory book on the table next to her. The city university bookstore had had a number of texts on advanced mathematics, as well as books on infant development. She'd told her father what to look for, and he'd made two different trips at different times of the day to see what he could find - because a man buying books on pure math and child development at the same time might be too memorable.

The mp3 player was on the table too, and the temptation to listen to Booth reading nearly won over the research.

But the research would get them home.

A sound alerted her and she looked up to see Max stepping onto the patio. Noting the time, she observed, "You were gone longer than you expected to be."

"I like to shop in different stores. It's safer. And I bought you something." He reached into the bag he was carrying and produced a digital camera and several SD storage cards.

"A camera?"

Settling in the seat next to her, he nodded toward the baby. "Sunday is Father's Day."

The comment baffled her. Did he want something from her in acknowledgement of the day?

"For Booth," he clarified.

"I don't understand."

"You don't think he'd want to see photos of her? Even video?"

"I'm sure he would, but there's no way to get them to him without giving away our location."

"You fill up one these storage cards, and get anything else you want for him, and I'll get them to him without a postmark."

There was so much she wanted to share with Booth that even thinking about it made her insides twist. She had thought both holidays a bit silly, but on Mother's Day, which had been the day before they'd found Ethan's body, he'd made her breakfast, brought her flowers and a card, and given her a pair of earrings with Christine's birthstone.

And If Parker was out of town, he'd be alone.

* * *

Booth stared down at his scotch and tried to think of a good reason to go back to his empty house rather than back to the Hoover.

There wasn't one.

It was odd, but once or twice since they'd been gone, the house hadn't felt quite so lonely. He'd walked in and seen her things, remembered moments they'd shared, and felt something close to peace, and a sure confidence that she and Christine would return home. That they would have that life back.

But tonight was not one of those nights. Tonight was a sleep-at-the-office type of night.

Movement at the door alerted him and he saw Cam came in. He was a cop, after all. He noticed everything.

She hesitated, then came over and settled on the stool next to him without saying anything, simply motioning to the bartender.

It was time that they talked, though God knew what there was to say. That was the problem. People kept trying to find the right combination of words that would fix this, and there weren't any. "Sweets send you?" He was the only one who'd known where Booth was going. He didn't frequent The Founding Fathers much these days.

Cam nodded, and he muttered, "Meddling twelve year old." But there wasn't any heat to it.

He took a close look at her. "Don't take this wrong, but you look bad." Not that any of them were looking their best these days, but Cam had looked less wiped out in a hospital bed after Epps had nearly killed her.

She shrugged, and sipped the wine the bartender had placed in front of her. "You're not looking so hot yourself."

There was no response to that, and the silence between them lengthened. "I'm sorry," she finally said.

He turned toward her. "Could you have done anything differently?"

She shook her head. "That's why I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"He's screwed with me, with the lab, and I let him."

"You know damn well if you'd not done exactly what you did, Pelant would have found a way to prove that you were covering up evidence. The lab would be off the case, and your ass would be in the sling with the rest of us." Frustrated, he tossed back the rest of his scotch, and then immediately regretted it. He was at his limit for the night, and with the scotch gone, had no reason to delay the choice between the house and his office.

Still, he didn't move to leave. There was comfort in sitting next to her, even with the silence. Or perhaps because of it.

"How often does Dr. Brennan clean the inside of her car?"

"What?"

"How often does she have it vacuumed?"

"I don't know. Once a month, maybe? Why?"

"I've gone over every piece of physical evidence related to all of this, again and again. And I keep coming back to that hair. I realized yesterday what it was that was bothering me. We generally do the entire crime scene analysis, but not with her car. Flynn gave me the hair to test - or re-test, rather - after bureau analyzed the car."

"You think he planted it?"

She shook her head. "No, the evidence trail is clear and too many other crime techs were involved. But it means I didn't initially see the full report of where in the trunk the hair was found, what other residue was around it."

"And now you have?"

"I had to get pissy over it," she said. "Flynn didn't want to me to have it, so I threatened to call Director Cullen. If my analysis of the hair is the primary physical evidence being used against Dr. Brennan, I have the right to see the full report."

"And?" She wouldn't have mentioned it if wasn't important.

"It's not a magic bullet," she cautioned. "But there's something very odd when you look at the report for the entire interior of the car. The only really clean area is the one area of the trunk where the hair was found. Other places in the trunk, the passenger seats, the floorboards in the back...they have other detritus. Hairs belonging to her, to your kids, to you. Baby spit. Grass and dirt. That one small area is completely clean."

"He wanted to make sure it was noticed," he murmured. "But they'll argue that Bones cleaned the car to get rid of the evidence."

"That's what Caroline said, when I ran it by her. But then they have to explain why a woman who works crime scenes for a living didn't at least clean the entire area where the body was, and why a single damning hair was spotlighted in that way."

Booth thought about what she'd said, turned it over in his mind. "It's a screw-up on his part, not to have cleaned the entire car, but he probably ran out of time. Planting the hair isn't something he could get a computer to do for him."

"It's not enough to clear her."

"Not nearly, not since it's too easy to use it against her. But we keep chipping away at it. Hell, Cam, if anyone would actually look at all this crap, they'd know she's being framed. She's guilty because she knows the circulatory system and Pelant doesn't, but he's not guilty when he's the convicted hacker and she doesn't have any programming skills?"

"You've got enough to create doubt, and might even win a trial at this point," she agreed. "But you're not trying to get her acquitted. You're trying to completely clear her so the charges are dropped."

There was nothing to say to that. Cam took another sip of her wine, and Booth motioned to the bartender for another scotch. At least he wasn't drinking alone.

* * *

With his family gone, the weekend was just another two days. On the third Saturday in June, thirty-three days after his life left, Booth got up, went for a run, took a shower, and went to his office, where, for variety, he worked on paperwork for other cases rather than immediately turning to Pelant. He had court appearances coming up, trials for perps they'd caught.

Some of the defense lawyers were trying to get their clients' charges dismissed due to the murder charge against Brennan. It was a royal mess, and was requiring extra preparation on all their parts.

He worked steadily from 7AM until 3PM before the need to eat became too strong to ignore. He was reaching the point of uselessness, anyway. He needed a break, a real break, from working and sleeping. But doing something normal, something just for fun, felt wrong. It was too much of a surrender, an acceptance that this half-life they were living might be the new norm.

But working well past the point of emotional and physical exhaustion every day for over a month simply put him at risk of missing something, of not seeing that one thing that would make a difference, that one question that needed to be asked.

So he packed up and headed home, stopping for pizza on the way. He'd eat, watch whatever ball game was on, and try to rest his brain.

A sly voice inside that he'd not heard for a while made the observation that a different game would do the same thing.

When he was gambling, he wasn't thinking of anything else.

Grimly, he shook his head as he took the turn onto his street. He would not face Brennan when they next met knowing that he'd let those hooks back into him. There were people he could call if the urge got bad enough. People who'd understand. But he wasn't there yet, and, God willing, wouldn't be.

There was a car parked in front of the house, and he slowed as he studied the man leaning against it. Russ. In seconds he'd parked and was across the yard, tension coiled inside him.

"Russ."

"Booth." His voice was even as he met Booth's eyes, and then shook his head. "I don't know where they are. Dad called me the day it went down, told me what was happening. But that's it. He wouldn't tell me anything else. He didn't want me to have to lie when they asked."

Booth frowned. "Have they asked?"

"Your Agent Flynn thinks he's my new best friend." Russ shrugged. "He got a warrant for my phone records, but apart from that one phone call, there's nothing to find."

Flynn was a bastard, but Booth figured Russ knew that. "So why are you here?"

Russ reached through the open window of the car and handed him an envelope. "This was in my mailbox yesterday, no postmark, just that note saying my dad wanted me to get it to you."

Booth turned over the envelope, his heart jumping a bit when he saw his name in Brennan's handwriting on the front. "So, not from your dad, then?" He opened the note, read the brief sentence. "Your dad needs this to get to Booth."

"It's not Dad's handwriting," Russ observed, then added, "The more convoluted the path, the harder it is to trace."

"Yeah." Either that, or they really weren't that far away and Max was just hiding that. But it didn't feel that way. He motioned toward the house. "You want some pizza?"

Russ shook his head. "Thanks, but no. I need to get back to the Amy and the girls." He started to walk around the car, then paused, turned back. "How's it looking, really? Will they be able to come home?"

"Absolutely." No other option was on the table. "We're chipping away at how he framed her. We don't have the big win yet, but everything helps."

"Keep me in the loop, won't you?"

Booth nodded. "Yeah, I'll do that."

He watched the other man drive off, then turned back to collect the pizza, the envelope clenched in his hand. In the house, he made himself put slices of the pizza on a plate and grabbed a beer before settling at the kitchen island. His patience ended, he slit it open, and pulled out a letter written in Brennan's distinctive writing, and an SD memory card, which he glanced at and then set aside.

_Dear Booth,_

_I wanted to find a Father's Day card for you, but the shop I was in had a very limited selection of cards that were all either unacceptably plain, factually wrong (why portray human fatherhood with the image of a male mammal that abandons its offspring?) or which seemed particularly unsuited to our current situation. _

_Since it seems that it is the motive which matters, hopefully this letter will suffice. _

_We are doing well. I am spending my days studying mathematics in an attempt to better understand what Ethan was telling me. It is very theoretical, but I believe I am making progress in grasping what's involved in predicting behavior. _

_Christine continues to develop normally according to the manual I purchased. A few days after we left, she rolled over for the first time. She now repeats the behavior often, and seems quite amused by it. She is also nearly sitting up on her own. Dad bought a digital camera and the storage media I've included has photos of her as well as short video clips, so you can see for yourself. _

_I sometimes read the math texts to her, just to interact with her while I'm studying. She does not understand it, of course, and often laughs at me, not unlike the way you do at times. _

_We bought her a few more books appropriate for infants, and I read those to her as well, but she has shown a decided preference for the ones we have you reading along to. I play them on the laptop, and she often reaches for your face and becomes quite animated._

_I've also found that the sound of your voice, minus the video, soothes her when she's fussing. Lest you believe I say that only to make a point, there is a video on the memory card which demonstrates it. _

_I take some comfort from the sound of your voice as well, as foolish as it seems to me to be reassured by the reading of children's literature. It is, however, no substitute for having you to turn to when Christine does something new, or on those occasions when I fear Pelant will win, when I'm afraid the life we had, the life I've come to treasure, is over for good._

_I also very much miss having intercourse with you. _

_As I understand the tradition of Father's Day, its purpose is for a child to acknowledge their love and appreciation for their father, or for someone else to do that for them if they're too young to do so themselves. One of my cherished memories is that last Sunday we were together, when you brought me my card and the gift you bought me in Christine's name. I regret that we're not together today, that I can't give you this in person, can't see you napping with our daughter asleep on your chest. _

_One of the cards I looked at but didn't buy had a little girl telling her father, "You're the best dad because you've always been there for me." Of them all, that was the one I came closest to buying, because even now when you don't know where we are, I believe you're there for us. We both miss you, and yet, I know as I go through these long days that you are thinking of us as often as we are thinking of you. (Well, I am thinking of you. I'm not certain that would be an accurate descriptor of Christine's cognitive processes.)_

_But I love you, and I believe she does, too._

_Brennan (and Christine)_

His eyes were wet but he was smiling when he finished the letter. He re-read it several times, his fingers smoothing over the ink. "I adore you," he murmured, smiling at her complaint about animals in Father's Day cards and her blunt comment about sex.

His laptop sat on the counter, so he slipped the SD card into it, and impatiently waited for the files to display. Even knowing Brennan didn't do things by halves, he was surprised to see over thirty photos and four videos listed. He watched the videos first, swallowing repeatedly at the images of Christine rolling over and laughing. The last two were longer, with one showing Brennan breastfeeding the baby, and the second showing her holding her on her lap while they watched the video of him reading one of the books.

The intent expression on the baby's face in the last one caused his heart to clench hard in his chest.

He then started clicking through the pictures, stopping on one of Brennan sitting on a bed, reading, the baby sleeping next to her in a pose familiar to him. It took him a moment to realize what was different. "You changed your hair color," he said softly. He'd not noticed that earlier, not really. Maybe the lighting had been off. "That was really smart."

Ignoring his now-cold pizza, he spent an hour studying the photos and re-reading the letter. There was nothing in any of the images to provide a clue as to where they were. He couldn't even say for certain that it was a hotel room. Just tightly cropped images of Brennan and Christine. That shouldn't surprise him, though. Not when Max was the photographer.

Not unlike his daughter, he reached out more than once to touch the screen of the laptop, wishing desperately it was warm skin he was touching. "God, I miss you both."

He had to figure out how to get them home.


	3. July

A/N: So, yeah, this is a few weeks late. I started working on it in June, fully intending to post it in July, and then Comic Con happened, and I wound up going in very different directions than I'd expected to, and rewriting huge swaths of it. On the plus side, I've got the next chapter (the last one) plotted out and partially written. I'm not sure when it will appear, but it will be before the S8 premiere. :)

As always, a million thanks to Someone1tookmyname for the beta, and NatesMama for answering endless legal questions.

* * *

July

Sweets leaned against the doorjamb and watched Booth stare at the paperwork in front of him, wondering how long it would be before the agent tired of pretending he was alone and looked up.

It was a given that the paperwork wasn't that interesting.

The truth was, Booth was quite practiced at ignoring him. Only usually, he wasn't really ignoring him, but only pretending to, not unlike the way an older brother treated a younger sibling. They both understood the game, and went with it. But more and more often these days, it wasn't a game, and they both understood that, too.

He glanced at his watch. He had time to spare yet.

Apparently in response to Sweets' movement, Booth finally spoke, still without looking up. "How long you going to stand there?"

"I didn't want to disturb you."

At the lie – and they both fully knew it was a lie – Booth lifted his head. "What do you want?"

"I'm leaving for the psych facility. The patient their chief psychiatrist thinks will be most useful for us is available."

"And you couldn't have emailed me to tell me?"

"I also wanted to see how you're doing."

"Are Bones and Christine back?"

"No."

"Then I'm the same as yesterday. If you see Dr. Noble, thank her for me."

Booth's tone was bitter, and Sweets couldn't blame him. After their last visit to the psych facility, the director had complained about what she called Booth's 'harassment' and Cullen had restricted him to desk duty. They'd allowed him to keep his badge and weapon, but he could no longer go out in the field to interview witnesses in his efforts to clear Brennan.

Booth saw it as another win for Pelant, and it was, but Sweets understood that Cullen had to think of the big picture, and Booth was edging closer to loose cannon status every day.

"She's trying to defend herself - protect her reputation – by attacking you. And we've still got the log book," Sweets pointed out.

"Until Pelant figures out a way to lose it in the system." Booth muttered.

"Even if he does, we've got the copies Angela made, and the sworn statements from the guards about the discrepancies."

"Yeah, whatever. I'm busy with my busywork, Sweets. Go play with your crazy people."

Sweets hesitated, then left. He was used to Booth being surly on occasion, but with his family having been gone for over two months, he was seldom anything else these days.

* * *

Booth had read over every word of every report anyone had ever filed on Christopher Pelant, from the investigations into his hacking of the Senate and DoD sites – very little of which made sense to him, given their technical nature – to the reports his team had filed during their investigations of the Johansson and Krane murders.

He was pretty sure he could quote them all word for word now, even the gibberish he didn't understand.

But no matter how much he focused on them, the words stubbornly refused to give him new directions to go in with the case.

Movement at the door drew his attention, and the tension headache that was always lurking behind his eyes these days exploded into full party mode.

Flynn.

"Hey, Booth. Got a minute?"

The fact that he stepped in and closed the door without waiting for an answer meant the question was completely rhetorical. On the other hand, the fact that he'd at least asked meant that today was a Good Cop day.

On Flynn's Bad Cop days, he hauled Booth down to the interrogation room.

If it hadn't been so bizarre, and hadn't been his life, it would have been funny. The other guy was just trying to do a damned difficult job, but in Booth's opinion, he was doing a piss poor one of it, and often bordered on ridiculous. Then again, Booth didn't want him to succeed, didn't want him to find Brennan. And that caused him to circle back to how bizarre his life now was.

"What do you want, Flynn?"

"You see this?" he asked, and dropped a magazine on Booth's desk.

His tone warned Booth, but even so, Brennan staring up at him from the front of People was a gut punch. "Fugitive author – where is she?" screamed the headline below the photo.

"Shit." He shoved it away, looked up. "She's a well-known writer, Flynn. What did you expect?"

Flynn's eyes hardened. "You should read the article."

Bad Cop moving in, Booth thought. "Yeah, it's going to tell me all kinds of things I don't know."

"It's painting the bureau in a very unflattering light."

"And you're surprised by this?"

Flynn put his hands on the desk, leaned forward. "They're suggesting that the fact that you haven't been arrested or at least fired is part of a cover-up."

Booth stood. "Not my fault the media doesn't get that annoying little detail about guilt."

"What they get is that you know where a fugitive wanted for murder is, and you're refusing to cooperate."

Rage curled in his stomach, and Booth bit back half a dozen responses. "Sorry, Flynn. I still don't know where she is. And my definition of cooperate is different from yours. I gave you the letter and photos she sent me." It was difficult to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He'd kept multiple copies, of course, but giving over the piece of paper Brennan had actually sent him had been hard. More so because he'd known they wouldn't find anything useful on it.

"I got the analysis report back from the bureau lab on that. There's nothing on it. No trace evidence to suggest a location, nothing in the images."

Booth stared at him, incredulous. "What did you expect?"

"Everyone makes mistakes."

"Yeah, well, something like that won't be one of hers."

"I'm going to find her, Booth."

Having watched his methods, that Flynn might actually find her wasn't on the list of things Booth worried about. The other agent was convinced she was in the DC area, and, as far as Booth could tell, had limited his searching to having tails on Booth and Russ.

After not very much thought, Booth had decided that 'cooperating' with the bureau didn't extend to actually helping them find his partner by pointing out that they were seriously underestimating Max Keenan.

"And if it comes out you've known where she is, you're going down with her."

"I don't know where she is." If he said the sentence often enough, would it register?

"Some relationship you've got there. You know, you guys have been the talk of the bureau for years, this great partnership you supposedly have. But she took your daughter and left you high and dry."

Yeah, Bad Cop was definitely out to join the party. For a moment, Booth entertained the fantasy of planting his fist in the other guy's face. "Don't bother going there, Flynn. You don't begin to understand her." _Or me. Or us. And that's why you'll never find her._

Flynn finally left, and Booth dropped back into his chair, the headache still pounding. Every couple of days, the media had something new to say about Brennan, often with quotes and tips from 'anonymous' sources. Initially, Flynn had thought it was Booth, until logic had, finally, prevailed, when Booth asked how it could possibly benefit him to have the media putting pressure on the bureau.

It was Pelant, of course, leaking information he was finding in Flynn's file's – not that there was much to leak - and that did concern him.

Then again, it also meant that Pelant hadn't had any success in finding her, either.

Go, Max.

* * *

Sweets studied the woman across from him. Elaine Collier was fifty-four years old, and had spent much of the last twelve years in and out of psychiatric facilities after having been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia at the relatively late age of forty-two.

She looked nothing the way schizophrenics on TV were often portrayed, Sweets thought. Her clothes were clean, her blonde hair was in a neat coil at the back of her neck, and the eyes gazing at him across the table were calm and focused.

She deserved his complete attention, and all he could think about was Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan.

He cleared his throat. "Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Collier."

"I'm glad to help," she said simply.

"Did Dr. Cortez tell you why I'm here?"

"He said you work with the FBI, and want to ask me about Ethan's visitors."

"That's correct."

She frowned. "Ethan didn't have many visitors. He was too unstable for most people. He had very few good days, no matter what drugs they tried."

"Unlike you?"

"Anti-psychotics all work for me for a while, though with various degrees of side effects."

He glanced down at his notes. "When they're effective, you go home?"

"Yes. I live with my daughter when I'm able. She works, and we're not sure yet whether this new mix of drugs is going to be effective, so right now, I'm an outpatient. I'm here during the day in case I have an episode, and then I go home at night." She sighed. "The doctors keep hoping they'll find some combination of meds that will work long term, but so far it's not happened. I was home for nearly a year once."

"And then?"

"And then the air conditioner started telling me that people were talking about what a terrible person I am."

She said it in such a matter-of-fact way, he hesitated for a moment. She was easily the most articulate schizophrenic he'd ever interviewed, appearing surprisingly well-oriented to the world around her. "You began to experience auditory hallucinations."

"Not for the first time. I guess I'm lucky. I've never had visual hallucinations." She frowned. "At least not that I'm aware of."

"So the anti-psychotics stop working and you wind up back in here?"

"It's the safest place for me when that happens." She showed him her scarred wrists. "When the meds stop working, I try to harm myself to escape the voices. Or, alternatively, the drugs prevent the voices but leave me unable to feel anything." She smiled sadly. "Anhedonia is a high price to pay for not hearing the voices."

"The inability to experience emotions, including pleasure. That's when many paranoid schizophrenics stop taking their medications."

She shook her head. "I'm an RN, Dr. Sweets. I would never do that. But the temptation to just be done with it..." her voice faded. "So I'm here while they try new combinations of anti-psychotics and anti-depressants."

"You were here when Ethan disappeared."

She nodded. "Dr. Cortez said you were interested in Ethan's visitors. But he didn't have any visitors except for Dr. Brennan."

He'd hoped she'd seen Pelant skulking around. But that would have been too easy. "How often was Dr. Brennan here?"

"Not that often. But she was always kind to me."

With effort, he kept his eyebrows from crawling toward the top of head. Brennan could certainly be kind, but it was seldom the first thing someone said about her.

"You spoke to her?"

"What did Dr. Cortez tell you about my pathology, Dr. Sweets?" she motioned toward the file in front of him.

Unsure what she was asking, he was slow to answer. "Your file confirms much of what you've said here about many of the standard interventions being ineffective."

"It says that I suffer from OCD as well."

"Yes…" Obsessive Compulsive Disorder wasn't uncommon with schizophrenia.

"And that manifests in an urgent need to control my environment?"

He glanced at her file, and nodded.

"I also don't do well when I'm idle. The more challenged I am intellectually, the less active the hallucinations."

"I'm sorry…I did see that in your file, but what does it have to do with Dr. Brennan?"

"There's an alcove, a waiting room, just off the locked door to the ward. I sit there and read. Knowing who's coming and going gives me a sense of control. If I know everyone who's on the ward, then it makes it easier for me to be aware of hallucinations when they they start."

Excitement was growing, but he kept his tone even. "Do you remember who was here on any specific day?"

"Yes," she said simply. "I'm very intelligent, Dr. Sweets, as paranoid schizophrenics often are. I also have a very good memory."

It struck him that she actually sounded a bit like Dr. Brennan. Probably an observation he should keep to himself when reporting the conversation to Dr. Brennan's partner. "So you would see Dr. Brennan come in to visit with Ethan?"

"Yes. She was here three times. The first time was March 28, the second was April 10 and the last time was April 27."

She pushed a notebook toward him. "As I said, I have a good memory, but I also note things down that I want to remember. Dr. Brennan was always very kind to me, and I made a note of it."

The notebook was a simple wire bound one, part journal, part study notes, and, yes, partly a log of who was doing what. He turned to May 11, and skimmed the page. There was no mention of Dr. Brennan at all, though Elaine had noted Ethan's transfer. Flipping back to April 27, however, he found two paragraphs noting what time Brennan came in, what she and Elaine talked about, and that she left carrying a book. More corroborative evidence against the security tape.

"So you and Dr. Brennan would talk?"

"The night of her first visit, I was reading a book on how mental illness is treated in different cultures. She saw the title and was curious, and we talked for a few minutes. I then became interested in her, and started reading her books."

He looked down at the entry for May 11 again. "Do you remember anything else from this night?"

"The night before Ethan disappeared? I saw him being transferred to the other ward, but that was the only thing that happened that night, although I heard the nurses talking about the computer system going down." She motioned toward her notebook.

"And Dr. Brennan wasn't here."

"No," she said patiently, as if she'd accepted he wasn't very bright. "She was last here on April 27."

* * *

Sweets rang the doorbell of the Hodgins-Montenegro house. More and more often, they met here for a meal or to talk about the case. Early on, Hodgins had pointed out that with the right listening devices, Pelant could keep tabs on them in the diner or pub – but that between Angela's technical skills and his paranoia, he wouldn't get anything through the walls of their house.

Angela opened the door holding a grinning Michael. "Hey, Sweets."

"Hi." He reached out, poked the baby in the belly and got a laugh. "Booth here?"

Angela's smile in response to the baby's giggle slipped. "No, I don't think he's coming." She motioned him inside, closed the door. "He said he was sure we could struggle along without him for one night."

"Translation: either he won't understand it, anyway, or he doesn't think it matters."

She nodded, and then turned and headed toward the kitchen. "We had breakfast with him a few days ago, but that's the only time he's been around this week."

And that, Sweets reflected, didn't need translating for any of them. "Yeah. I saw him this afternoon, when I got back from the psych facility." He winced, recalling how that conversation had gone. "I think Flynn had been hassling him again. He wasn't in a good space."

"Hey, Sweets," Hodgins said as they reached the kitchen. He was standing in front of the stove, legs spread, wielding a spatula like a weapon. "Stir-fry okay?"

"Always." He settled at the island in the middle of the kitchen that served as a table as often as not, nodding his thanks to Angela as she passed him a beer. They'd learned things about one another during the past two months that had nothing to do with Pelant or the case. For starters…who knew that Hodgins could cook?

"How did it go at the psych facility?" Angela asked as she began wrangling - that was the most appropriate term for it - Michael into his high chair.

"What? Oh. It was great. This patient would be a superb witness for us...if she wasn't a paranoid schizophrenic. She's one of the most..." he hesitated, looking for the right phrase. "Well, we call it "oriented to place" schizophrenics I've ever encountered. She knows and fully understands herself and her disease, and is more aware of her surroundings than many healthy people. She not only knows exactly when Dr. Brennan was there - and, more importantly, when she wasn't - but has detailed notes about those days."

"But ...paranoid schizophrenic," Hodgins said.

"Yeah. No way we could put her in front of a jury."

"What about her notes? Those could add more weight to what we already have," Angela said, settling next to the high chair the baby was now firmly strapped into.

"I asked Booth that," Sweets admitted. "I think he was too discouraged to even really hear what I was saying."

There was no response to that. They were all tired and stressed, and also all knew that Booth was well beyond that. "So how did your day go?" Sweets asked Hodgins. "You were going to see the math professor, right?"

"Yeah. I had lunch with my compadre in the chemistry department – and made sure that we talked about boring chemistry stuff, nothing remotely interesting to Pelant. Then I got lost in the math building on the way back to my car."

He slid the contents of the pan into a serving bowl, turned off the burner, and carried both the bowl and a second bowl with rice in it to the island. With Michael happily munching on something Sweets couldn't identify, Angela reached for the rice.

"The math guy was in his office?"

"Dr. Thompson. Yeah. I'd checked his office hours online before scheduling the lunch. Nice guy," he added. "A little excitable – he might want to cut back on the caffeine. But he came to earth fast when I told him about the code. He knew Ethan well. But here's the thing." He helped himself to the rice, then looked up. "He knows Pelant, too."

"You asked about Pelant specifically?" Sweets frowned. Was that a violation of some area they weren't supposed to be pursuing? Keeping track was complicated.

"I didn't need to. As soon as I explained what I was wondering about – in general terms, without giving too many details – he mentioned Pelant. He had him in a class a few years ago. Says he wrote a paper theorizing about predicting human behavior."

Angela reached over and dumped a spoonful of the rice on Michael's tray, grinning at him when he began pushing it around. "Did he remember what the paper said?"

"Not only that, he's continued to work on it in his spare time, as one of those exercises theoreticians like to play with but don't expect to have an answer." He shoved another bite of food in his own mouth. "He says that people get the science – possible science – of predicting human behavior confused with fortune telling, thinking it's the same as knowing in advance every single thing someone might do, like whether I'll wear blue or black socks tomorrow. It's not."

"No, it wouldn't be," Sweets said slowly. "It would be bigger things, more important decisions."

"Where you can calculate the variables that affect the outcome," Angela contributed.

"Exactly. He said if you could input enough variables – my mood, the temperature, what my other clothing choices were – for every day for my entire life, you might be able to predict the blue vs. black socks choice. But why bother? It's not worth the effort, even assuming you could track that. But bigger choices can actually have fewer variables."

"What a person's values are, what's at stake, who's important to them that might influence them, and so on." Sweets sipped his beer. "The tricky part would be when two variables conflict…like honestly and loyalty." A glance at the other two told him they were all thinking of Cam.

"You'd weight them," Angela contributed. "You'd have to know enough to say which one is the stronger influence. Is honesty more important than loyalty, even a little?"

"Wait…" Sweets' brain finally caught up. "There's an actual formula for this?"

"Dr. Thompson said there could be, though it's more a flow chart than formula, but yeah. It couldn't involve infinite choices. But when you've got it narrowed down to two or three behaviors, you could plot it out. 'If honesty is weighted at 55%, and loyalty at 45%, and the influence of person A is greater than that of person B…which of two courses of action will a subject choose?"

"Wow," Sweets said. "But how do you know how to weight the variables?"

"You'd have to know the subject very well," Hodgins answered.

"Which, if you're Pelant, you get by spying on them. On us." His appetite gone, Sweets sat back, pushed his plate away. "Are we doing what he predicted, being here, talking about it?"

Angela pointed her fork at him. "That way lies madness. I'm going to do what I do, and if psycho boy figures it out, good for him."

"Right. You're right." He frowned, then looked over at Hodgins again. "Is there any real way to use this against him?"

"Everything helps, but…" he shook his head. "Right now, I don't see how."

"It means he's right – and so's Booth," Angela said. "We need to learn as much about this bastard as we can."

* * *

Nights were the worst. It wasn't that any time of the day was easy, but at night, when Christine was asleep and her father was in his room; when her books and the computer were put away…that was when it was hardest. That was when there was nothing to occupy her mind but thoughts of Booth.

Some nights, she put up a good fight by lying in bed going over the Pelant cases in her head again, desperate to stave off the loneliness. But thoughts of Pelant inevitably led back to her partner.

Other nights, she simply accepted that she was going to think about him, and indulged herself, despite the pain, by imagining where he was,, what he was doing at that precise moment in time. Even admitting it was pointless behavior, she couldn't seem to stop herself.

Nor could she stop thinking about the time they'd been together as a family. Her current life was so empty, the days so monotonous except for the pleasure she took in Christine that if she didn't remind herself that there had been another existence, it was easy for it to to seem like a dream. For the months she and Booth had lived together to feel like someone else's life entirely.

So some nights, in the quiet of her bed, her daughter sleeping in the portable crib next to her, she deliberately recalled that life, let herself remember moments from those few short weeks they'd had together as a family.

Booth had taken a few days off after Christine was born off, and that week, when it had been just the three of them, had been one of the happiest of her life.

Lying on her side, curled around a pillow, she smiled, remembering. They'd argued, of course. She was determined to do everything according to the most respected, current research in infant care; he was an experienced father. And her hormones had been no less elevated for her having given birth, meaning her own behavior was somewhat erratic. But he'd taken it in stride – like the morning when she'd acknowledged to herself how much she was missing her mother, and all the associated cultural rituals of a mother helping her daughter care for a newborn. Booth had found her standing next to the crib, weeping even as she explained how irrational it was. He'd simply held her through the storm, and now…now she wept because she missed the refuge of those strong arms.

Leaving had been the right choice. It had been the rational choice. She still believed that. Maybe she would have survived in jail while the team worked to free her. But if so, it would have been simply because Pelant wanted her alive. And if he did want her dead…nothing anyone could have done would have prevented it.

Risks always had to be weighed. Many of the things she'd chosen to do in her life had not been risk-free - Guatemala, some of the other digs. But to put her life in the hands of a psychopath who was as likely to kill her as not…that wasn't rational. Not when she had a daughter.

But as the days wore on, the price for that rational choice was turning out to be much higher than she'd anticipated.

* * *

Booth sat farther back in the church than he usually did. For most of his life, no matter what he was dealing with or how bad things were, the sights and scents of Mass comforted him, the rhythm and ritual reassured him that he wasn't alone, that there was someone bigger than him involved.

He'd lost that by week six of the hell he was currently living in.

He'd only tried once to go to St. John's, the church he normally attended and where Christine had been baptized. Sitting there, in his usual spot, he'd been unable to look away from the baptismal font.

But things weren't much better at St. Anne's. His faith was simply gone. God was gone. Booth had seen too much, been through too much, not to have had times in the past when his faith wavered. But always before, he'd been able to fight for it, to work through the things that were simply incomprehensible. Or, as he'd told Brennan once, he got up the next morning, the sun was up, and it was possible to believe again.

But not this time.

He wasn't angry at God, wasn't disappointed. He wasn't sure what he was, really, beyond tired. There was just a blankness where his faith used to be, and he couldn't work up the energy to care very much.

He wasn't a theologian, wasn't a complicated man. You got up everyday, did what you were supposed to, and trusted God even when things fell apart. And sometimes they did, and God didn't stop them. He'd told Brennan that the night after Vincent was murdered.

But this...you couldn't do the right thing if you didn't have a clue what it was, and every damn option was wrong.

He sat there, stone cold inside, until the priest finished, then silently left.

* * *

Angela leaned back in the chair in her office and tilted her head back and forth, stretching muscles tight from too many hours in front of the monitor. On a frustrated breath, she plugged in an external hard drive, backed up everything she'd done in the last half hour, and then unplugged it. She knew that the Jeffersonian IT department - with whom she actually had a very cordial relationship - thought her current policy of multiple redundant backups paranoid, but she had a much better idea of what Pelant was capable of they did.

She just couldn't prove it, damn it. There was a pattern to the computer code. She could see it, and its meaning teased at the edges of her mind, but she couldn't quite bring it into focus. But she was certain that if she could solve even part of it, that would give her an entry point to the rest of it.

The coders on the geek site were working on it, too, and while much of the time they mostly argued about whether it was even real code or not, one or two of them had posted theories about the possible syntax being used. None of those had panned out, either, but each one gave her another angle to work.

She stretched again, then clicked back to the one actual resource she'd found on the programming language Pelant had used as his base. But before she could refocus enough to figure out where to begin, a noise at the door alerted her she had company.

Cam. She kept her face neutral as she faced her boss. Caroline had been right, and they'd all come to see the personal price Cam had paid for making the choice she had. But the sense of betrayal was still there, and Angela no longer knew quite how much she could trust the other woman. Cam knew what she was working on, but they never talked about the specifics.

"We've got another case." Cam brought her hands together in front of her and then lowered them, and it struck Angela as nervous. "I need you to back burner this - just for a while," she added, nodding towards the computer, "and prioritize the facial reconstruction."

Before Angela could form a protest, Cam held up a hand. "Stopping Pelant is the priority of this lab, and Clark and I are doing our best with the interns to allow you and Hodgins as much time as possible to focus on that. But Flynn's sending us cases their lab usually handles - a lot of them. If we don't keep up, we won't be able to continue to work the Pelant case because none of us will have jobs."

"He's trying to shut us down?"

Cam shook her head. "The last time Dr. Brennan was gone, The lab fell apart. I think this is a test, to see if that's going to happen again. The bureau is assuming she won't be back," she pointed out. "They need to know whether or not we can keep up."

"Yeah, well, when Brennan was in Maluku, you didn't have me and Hodgins." She stood to follow Cam. Maybe a break and working on something else for a while would clear her head.

* * *

Hodgins hit 'send' on the particulates report from the FBI's latest busywork case. Cam thought they were testing her, to see if the lab could keep running without Brennan, but he wasn't so sure. If that was the case, sending the usual types of cases would be sufficient. That's wasn't what was happening. There were too many routine cases being bounced to them when he knew for a fact that the bureau crime lab was running slow. Maybe, _maybe_, it was crossed wires somewhere, because while Booth was doing desk duty, there was no one clearly serving as the liaison between the bureau and the lab. But it was hard not to wonder if something more sinister was going on.

Well, it was hard for him not to wonder, at least. It's not that the victims of the cases didn't deserve justice, but the circumstance were very suspicious.

An alarm on his phone beeped, and his gaze automatically checked his PC clock. Sure enough, more time had lapsed than he'd realized, and it was nearly time to go get Michael from day care. He'd see how close Angela was to finishing, and then go get the little boy. The thought of the giggle he'd get when Michael saw him drained some of his tension.

It returned ten-fold when he stepped into his wife's office, and saw her posture and expression. She was livid.

"Uh oh."

She turned her glare on him. "Pelant."

"What? What did he do?"

"He deleted the file with my most recent work on his programming code." He opened his mouth, then closed it when she glared at him. "Don't you dare ask if I'm sure. I had multiple copies in different folders before I went to work on the skull reconstruction, and now all of them are gone. They're not anywhere on the drive, and it's not in the trash - but other things that I deleted yesterday are."

He was pretty sure she was coming close to baring her teeth at him. "How much work did you lose?"

"None. I backed it up to the external drive, which he couldn't access. He didn't actually _get_ anything. It's that he could have. He slides through every firewall we put up, every defense. And it's easier for him now that he's got access to all of his equipment."

"So what are you going to do?" He knew his wife, knew she wasn't going to give up trying to protect her stuff.

She glanced at the clock. "I'm going to make it impossible for him to get to the data he most wants to see. But I'll need a few minutes. Will you go get Michael?"

He leaned over, kissed her. "Sure thing."

* * *

Brennan pulled into the drive of the little house, and simply sat there, too tired – no, if she was honest, too discouraged – to get out immediately. The first few weeks, the trips to the library for the secretive chats with Angela had energized her, given her hope. But increasingly, they just emphasized how isolated she was.

Always before, she'd been able to see a path forward from whatever her current circumstances were. She simply chose the most rational option and went from there. If emotions were a consideration, she set them aside, unable to see how allowing feelings, which often changed, to guide you could improve a situation. And she never wasted time second-guessing a decision she'd already made, though she did allow for the possibility of re-evaluating based on new data.

But as the weeks of this endless summer dragged on, the less certain she was of what the rational choice had been in May. Or was, now.

There was nothing rational about the situation she found herself in.

Knowing it was unwise to stay in the car too long, as it might draw someone's attention, she put the emotion aside and went inside.

Christine was in her carrier seat on the table and Max was talking to her while making supper. From the scent, it was Brennan's favorite lentil casserole, along with fresh bread in the oven. He was a good cook, having always insisted that cooking was nothing more than applied chemistry, where you got to eat the results of your experiments. A sudden vivid memory came back to her of him explaining that to Parker once while making cookies, and the rush of sadness took her breath away.

She wasn't at all hungry, even for one of her favorite meals.

"Hi, honey." Max was looking at her closely, a sudden tension settling on his face. "Is something wrong?"

_Everything. Everything is wrong_. "No, nothing's wrong. No one appeared to recognize me, and I spent the moments before Angela arrived chatting with the other forum members. They still think I'm an English teacher." She made a point of chatting with others on the forum, and allowing them to think she taught English would hopefully explain her precision of language. And, as difficult as it was, she refrained from commenting on scientific topics at all, even when someone said something wildly inaccurate.

He relaxed, and went back to chopping the almonds for the casserole. "What did Angela say?"

"There's been a set back of some sort. She couldn't tell me what, of course, and she sounded more irritated than anything. But it's a lack of progress, regardless."

"And Booth?"

In every chat, she either asked about 'SexyArtist's friend' – the one whose 'wife' had left him - or Angela mentioned him on her own, as casually as possible. It was a hopelessly inadequate way of communicating, of course, but at least Brennan had been able to know how much the Father's Day letter had meant to him. But today…she'd had to ask, and Angela hadn't answered right away. Those long moments of waiting for words to appear on the screen had terrified her.

"She's not seen him for several days." And she was worried about him. There had been another long pause before Angela admitted that. As confused as Brennan could be at times by non-explicit language and non-verbal cues, she'd understood what her friend's hesitation meant: she was very worried, and not sure if telling Brennan that was helpful or not.

Brennan didn't know, either. She wanted to know everything about him, from what he had for breakfast this morning to which pair of wildly-hued socks he was wearing. But Angela's admission had been a stark reminder of the toll this was taking on him when Brennan couldn't do anything about it.

"Dad, are you okay watching Christine for a little while longer? I'm going to go lay down for a while."

He gave her a sharp look, but nodded. "Of course."

Max watched her lean over and brush a kiss on Christine's forehead before turning to the bedroom.

She never took naps during the day.

Christine gurgled, and he glanced over at her. "I knew they were underestimating that kid, right from the start," he told her. "But I didn't think it would take this long to disprove his lies."

He understood the damage that was being done better than his daughter or Booth would have believed, and his fear that it would prove unfixable was growing.

* * *

During the drive home from work, the key question of Booth's current existence continued to nag at him. Was he doing the right thing by going along with what Brennan had wanted? For him to stay in DC, jump through the bureau's endless hoops, try to help however he could, so that if they cleared her - he didn't know when that had switched from 'when'' to 'if' - they could resume their life?

The need to be with his family, protecting them, was eating him alive, but to give into that urge meant admitting that Pelant had won, that there was no hope in the system; it also meant turning his back on those he could provide justice for. If he found Brennan and Christine, went to them, the least the bureau would do was fire him. And then, who would find justice for Inger Johanssen? And even the idiot journalist, Ezra Krane? Those cases were cold, from the bureau's perspective, and would remain so, if there was no one willing to go up against Pelant.

But if he didn't at least try to find his family, would there be anything left of him by the time she came home, if she did? But if he did go be with Brennan and Christine… what about Parker?

Every choice was wrong.

Once in the house, he threw his keys on the counter and went directly to his desk in the man cave. The bottom left drawer included a fireproof box with important papers in it, various bits of junk, and a large manila envelope. He pulled the envelope out, dropped it on the desk, and frowned at it.

For the first several weeks Brennan had been gone, he'd actually forgotten the file existed. And then he'd avoided it, knowing it would be another decision to face. Another temptation.

He opened the flap and pulled out an inch thick stack of paper.

He liked and respected Max Keenan. But trust was trickier. Max would keep Brennan physically safe if it was in his power to do so. Booth believed that, or he would have followed Max out of town, followed him to Brennan.

But Booth had never completely trusted him not to hurt Brennan in some other way, and he'd wanted to be prepared for that. So for six years, he'd been compiling notes on her father. In addition to the case files from Kirby's murder, he had observations and notes he'd jotted down about things Max had revealed about his past.

Max was too smart to give away very much, but he'd wanted Brennan to trust him. And he'd wanted to share his life with her, Booth thought. Enough that he occasionally gave away more than he realized to someone who was listening. And Booth had listened.

He didn't know if the file would help him find Brennan and Christine. There was nothing explicit in it, no handy list of aliases or addresses of Max's bolt holes. Just notes about things Max had said, stories he'd told where he'd revealed perhaps more than he intended about where he'd been, what he'd done during the years he was a fugitive - or more recently, for that matter, when he'd been 'traveling.'

Booth was nearly certain that if the studied the bits and pieces and spent enough time thinking about it, he could narrow down the possibilities of where they were. The question, always, was should he? Should he give up on the bureau and go be with them until they were cleared, knowing that he'd have to find something else to do with his life – and knowing he couldn't see Parker until she was cleared?

With every day that passed, his dedication to the life they'd lived for those few short months weakened. He'd hang on for a while longer, but damned if it wasn't getting harder, every day, to remember why he was choosing the FBI over his family. It wasn't like he was accomplishing anything for them by staying behind. It was what she wanted, yeah. Or had wanted. Had she envisioned it being months when they left, instead of days or weeks?

Finding them, being with them would mean no more Skype chats with Parker, and that was a raw punch in the gut. But so was missing milestones of his little girl's life, when they came so fast and often.

The second question was harder. Should he give the file to Flynn?

He didn't think Flynn could use it to find them. He really didn't. Most of it was available in the bureau's official files, and he was certain Flynn would see the rest of it as random observations. Every word the man had said about Max showed he was underestimating him. And giving them the file might actually get Flynn off his back long enough for Booth to find out something useful about Pelant.

But if Flynn did wake up and used something in the file to find Brennan...it would be the worst betrayal imaginable, even assuming Brennan lived through being jailed. And Flynn, if he paid any attention to it at all, would no doubt enter it into his computer, meaning Pelant would have access to it.

Pelant was a lot smarter than Flynn.

Booth paged through the notes, trying to see them the way Flynn would. It was a mine field, another booby trap in his life. Go this way, and live until tomorrow. Go that way, and blow up the rest of your life.

And either way, his kids were collateral damage.

He finally gave up, put the file away, and went for a run, hoping to clear his head.

* * *

Angela was at the Angelatron, working on a scene reconstruction for one of what Hodgins called their busy-work cases, when the sound of voices coming toward her office reached her. She looked up, and mentally groaned. Or at least she hoped it didn't show on her face. Cam entered her office, accompanied by Dr. Bancroft, the head of the Jeffersonian, Paul Conners, head of IT, and a suit she didn't know. It was a given that there was a problem - and she'd bet the suit was the source. Bancroft closed the door.

Cam started to say something, only to be interrupted by Bancroft. "Ms. Montenegro. We have a situation here."

He was wearing his 'appropriately grave' expression that made it hard for her to take him seriously, but the tense expression on both Cam's face and Paul's prevented her from revealing how ridiculous she found him.

"You know Paul, of course, head of our IT department, and this is Mike Farland of the Department of Homeland Security."

DHS. Good lord, now what? Farland was looking at her equipment with a speculative, avaricious gleam in his eye that made her own eyes narrow.

He turned to her. "Ms. Montenegro, you're aware of the guidelines governing all computers used by government organizations?" In a dramatic show, he turned to Cam and Bancroft. "Her signed agreement to abide by the policies is on file?" His tone plainly indicated it probably wasn't.

"Yes, it's on file," Angela said. "I have duplicate copies here if you'd like to see them. What is this about?" She'd already figured it out, but she might as well let the farce play out.

"One of these PCs" he motioned around, his tone plainly indicating he thought her having more than one was excessive, "was removed from the network several days ago without authorization. That is a clear violation of the guidelines, although Dr. Saroyan assures me that it wasn't so you could remove the equipment from the premises."

"No, it wasn't." She motioned to the workstation she'd taken off the network. "It's in front of you. I'm building a case against a hacker, and multiple copies of one of my files vanished. I can't risk him accessing more of the files, so I took it off the network - and therefore the internet - to eliminate the possibility."

"You were hacked...your excuse for violating the policy is that someone hacked through a fully secured government network to steal one file?"

Brennan was counting on her. That was the only thing preventing her from shoving the remote she was holding in his mouth and walking out. "He's done so before," she pointed out. "The fact that he didn't take down the DoD or Senate websites this time doesn't mean he's not fully capable of hacking into pretty much anywhere he wants to go...which is why I'm trying to stop him. And I did notify Paul that I was going offline for a few days."

"You're referring to Christopher Pelant. My understanding is that he not only was a model prisoner while serving his time, but also suffered a vicious physical attack by the former FBI liaison to this lab. This witch-hunt-"

Some days, she wished Booth had killed Pelant when he had the chance. "I didn't say anything about Pelant. You did. But yes, he's still a suspect in two murders because the person who murdered Inger Johansen took out a million dollars worth of equipment with a code only a handful of computer programmers in the world would have been able to pull off. That, in spite of our 'fully secured government network.'" Incensed, she went on the offensive. "Tell me something. How did you find out I was offline, when Paul's the only person I told?"

"I am not at liberty to disclose that."

Paul snorted. "Which means they got a very convenient anonymous tip."

"It seems like they'd be more interested in knowing how someone got that information in the first place, doesn't it?" Angela said to Paul, with a glance toward Cam. The other woman was positively vibrating with anger.

"There are proper channels for reporting suspected hacking attempts-"

"And every single one of them is online!"

"...which is why I have a meeting scheduled with your boss this afternoon," Paul said to Farland.

"The policies exist for a reason. If Ms. Montenegro no longer wishes to abide by them-"

"You don't want to finish that sentence," Cam said. "I suggest you go back and look at the shared patents Angela's work has generated for the government and the law enforcement agencies benefiting from her software and inventions. I promise you, we all need her more than she needs us."

Angela looked over at Cam and a memory of one of their first cases together surfaced, of Cam's defending the team against an attorney in the Warren Lynch case. In her anger with Cam over Brennan, she'd forgotten that. She turned back to Farland. "I'm going to stop this guy, with or without your assistance. There's the computer. If you want to inspect it, see if it's there, see if there's something on it you don't think should be there, go ahead. But it's not going back online until I've finished what I'm doing."

* * *

Booth took a drink of his beer and studied the bar. It wanted to be either a neighborhood pub or an upscale pool hall, but based on the overpriced booze and the seedy clientele, it failed at both. And everyone in the place knew that - particularly the guys exchanging money over by one of the pool tables.

There were different kinds of gambling. He'd known that for years. Today, for instance, he'd gambled that he'd be able to come here, have a few beers, watch the action, and then leave without picking up a cue.

He was pretty sure he was going to win, for now.

He wished he could remember why it mattered.

The man sitting next to him shifted, and motioned with his bottle. "The old guy is going to hose the young dude."

Booth looked over at him. He'd been aware that the guy picked the stool next to him when there were plenty of empty ones, but they'd been sitting there in silence for so long he'd figured it was just the other man's preferred spot. He wasn't a day younger than seventy, which made his assessment of the relative ages of the players amusing, since 'Old Guy' was about fifty.

But Booth had seen the same thing. "Yeah." The kid - Booth doubted he was legal - was swaggering around like he owned the place, but the way he held his cue screamed 'doesn't know jack shit.'

"Could be a con."

"Nah," Booth said. "If that's a con, it's a bad one. He's overplaying it."

"Old guy knows his stuff. He's going to clean him out." He turned to Booth. "Name's Carl, by the way."

"Booth."

"You gonna play today?"

_Yes._ For a moment, he hovered there, the urge to win at something – and he would win – a powerful temptation. But then Christine's eyes swam in front of him. "No, not today."

"Me, neither."

Just two guys, sitting in a gambling joint, not gambling.

* * *

The clock showed 3:12 A.M. when Angela gave up on sleep and slid out of bed. Jack was still sleeping soundly, but sooner or later her restlessness would wake him, and there was no point in both of them being wiped out.

She was spending nearly every moment picking over Pelant's code, comparing it to what she'd learned about the language it was based on. Since it had never been intended for real world applications, it was inherently flexible, and anything could mean, well, anything. But there were still patterns within the code.

But the meaning of those patterns were eluding her, and the programmers at the coding site – including the guy who'd developed the language to start with – were still just as mystified as she was. Pelant had taken his concept and transformed it into something else entirely.

A headache born of exhaustion and despair was building behind her eyes, so she abruptly turned, and instead of the room they shared as a home office, she went to her studio. A gift from Jack their first Christmas in the new house, it was in the attic, with skylights letting in natural light during bright days, and full-spectrum artificial lighting for overcast days and nights.

She'd not been up here in weeks, but she needed to rest her brain for a while, and shutting down all thoughts of code and Pelant with color and shapes and texture might be the answer. She set up an easel, got her oils out – she wanted their intensity – and turned on the sound system. Rock, loud and fast.

She didn't want to think for a while.

An hour later, an explosion of color was forming on the canvas. Deep purples, blues, and greens, with streaks of gold giving it texture. Her dad would shake his head at it, but the whole point of the image was how the colors blended and clashed. She added deeper shadows, hints of brown, in one corner, and then began to lighten another area.

And froze, as between one stroke of the brush and the next, a recurring part of Pelant's programs suddenly made sense. "It's utility code!" With an astonishing lack of concern for her brushes, she bolted from the studio, music still blasting, and made it to the office on the first floor in record time. Powering up the laptop she was using, which she'd also taken off the internet, she started poring over the programs again. There was a pattern toward the end of many of them, with some of the same sequences at the beginning of other programs. She'd known the pattern was important, but its meaning had thrown her.

"It's what connects pieces of the same program together," she muttered. Despite the amount of code he'd managed to place on each RFID tag, it was unlikely that any of them constituted an entire program. The code wasn't compact to start with, and even efficient software languages often took millions of lines of code to accomplish their purpose. The repeating pattern of symbols must be how he told the program to find its next sequence, on a different RFID tag.

She began comparing the string of symbols in the different code samples, excited to see that she could match the end of one string to the beginning of another, and with some confidence separate out entire programs. And now that she knew what that string did, it should be possible to figure out other strings, and with every piece, she'd have that much more of the puzzle.

It wasn't the answer, not yet. But it was the first real break she'd had. Somewhere in the weird symbols was the code that would prove Brennan had been framed, would allow her friend to come home.

Angela covered her face her face with her hands and cried.


	4. September

A/N: My plan had been to split this up and have part of it be in August, so there could be an August chapter, but I couldn't figure out where to split it. Hopefully, it won't look too strange. LOL.

Many thanks to all of you for coming along on the journey with me. It's helped the hiatus go much faster.

This could not have been written without some1tookmyname and NatesMama, who not only read and beta'd parts of it, but also brainstormed with me, right up until the very end. A thousand thanks.

* * *

With studied nonchalance, Brennan collected the files she'd printed from the library printer, stuffed them in her bag, and walked out.

Angela had worked out a system involving disposable email addresses and a file storage service where she could send Brennan files. There was a risk to it, but Pelant only had so many hours in the day, and no matter how much he could automate, he still had to spend some time interpreting the results.

And by now, the files, the email addresses, and the accounts were all deleted. In order to see them, he'd have to spend the time hacking into the history logs of four different servers owned by two different companies. It was a lot of work when, on the surface, the files were all about parenting.

Once in her car, she glanced at her bag, tempted to look through the files right then. She badly wanted to know what was in them. But no, anything that could draw attention to was a risk, and someone might remember a woman in a car reading.

So she went back to their house, reassured Max that she'd not seen anything out of the ordinary – by which he meant someone taking any interest in her – and played with Christine until the baby fell asleep.

After lunch, she finally sat down to look at the files. There were six of them, all appearing to be articles on some aspect of infant development or parenting. And they were exactly what they appeared to be. But each article was several pages longer than it should be, and included pages in the middle that weren't about parenting at all.

She skimmed each article until she figured out which pages belonged to what article and had them in order.

The article Angela wanted her to read was written by a math professor at GU, exploring mathematical prediction of human behavior.

It was important, or Angela wouldn't have gone to such trouble to get it to her, wouldn't have taken such risks. But at the very end, buried in the footnotes, Brennan found what she was looking for: "Making progress, but it's slow. We all miss you. B's still jumping through their hoops. We're going to beat this."

She blew out a breath, aware of disappointment. But what had she expected? Some open explanation of what they were working on? Some detailed explanation of what Booth was doing? _How_ Booth was doing? 'B's still jumping through their hoops.' He was doing what she'd asked of him, then.

But was it making a difference? That was the question she'd really wanted Angela to answer, she thought as she went back to the beginning of the article. She wanted to know that leaving him behind had been the right thing to do.

And there was no way of knowing that, even if she could talk to him. Turning her mind from irrelevant questions, she began to read.

B&B

"Christine!"

Booth sat straight up in bed, his weapon in his hand, the roaring in his ears overshadowed by his daughter's screams. They weren't cries of hunger or boredom, but shrieks of agony and fear.

It took longer than it should have to separate reality from the dream, the silence of the lonely house from the nightmare sounds still echoing in his head.

He pressed the heel of his free hand against his forehead, tried desperately to come back fully from the dream. But damn it, he could still hear her. Giving up, he shoved back the covers and stood. He knew she wasn't in the house, knew she was with Brennan…wherever they were. Knew the silence his ears were reporting was real, no matter what the dream was insisting.

He moved silently out of the bedroom, down the hall to the nursery. Two weeks earlier, he'd decided it was stupid to spend any more time on the couch downstairs when he had a perfectly good bed. So he'd changed the sheets, and somewhat to his dismay, had slept as well as he ever did these days. He was no longer used to waking with Brennan curled next to him.

But he'd not gone into the nursery since the day they'd left.

Still hearing those screams in his head, he pushed the door open. It smelled musty, as closed rooms often do. If Brennan were there, she'd offer an explanation of the chemical basis for stale air.

He walked over to the crib, touched the mobile Parker had made, then looked down. Dawn was slipping in the window, casting weird shadows on the empty space.

Where were they? Were they safe? Was it possible the dream was a warning or premonition of some kind? Brennan would have laughed at the thought, but he believed in things he couldn't see more easily than she did. And the dream had been too real.

He turned, saw the dresser, with some of the baby's outfits on top, clothes he'd never see her wear again. He reached out, picked up a tiny t-shirt, crumpled it his fist. His daughter had been eleven weeks old when he'd kissed her goodbye, not knowing that farewell for what it was. He'd now been away from her longer than he'd had her, and awareness of what he'd lost ripped through him as he wadded the shirt up and threw it. "Damn you."

It came out a whisper as he sank to his knees.

He'd missed parts of Parker's life, due to the military. Hell, he'd been on temporary assignment with the army when he was born, recalled from his role at the bureau to train snipers. And then there'd been that year when he and Rebecca had struggled to find their footing after they broke up that last time. But he'd always known where Parker was. He'd always known Rebecca would tell him if their son was hurt, or in danger.

He'd always known he could check on him. He'd always had that.

It was a long time before the screams stopped echoing in his head.

B&B

Brennan had read through the article on predicting behavior so many times she nearly had it memorized. It was interesting, but she still wasn't sure why Angela had thought it important enough for her to see to take the risk she had in getting it to her. Even if Pelant was experimenting with predicting human behavior, how did knowing that help prove she was innocent of Ethan's death?

Maybe it didn't. Maybe the point was just that the more they knew about their adversary, the better.

Maybe it was possible to use it against him.

She opened a new document file on her PC, and made a list of everything they knew about Pelant: his origins, his education, his hobbies, his stated motives in his hacking crimes, as well as the things they knew but couldn't prove about his murders. Then she pulled a tablet of blank paper toward her and began experimenting with flow charting some of the possibilities for what he'd do next.

Two hours later, she put the pencil down in frustration. She understood the point of the article, that it was possible to use past behavior to accurately predict future actions. But she also understood that you had to know enough details about motive for those past behaviors. Motive was always a puzzle to her, even when they didn't have as many questions as they did about why Pelant did the things he did.

But no matter how she plotted different variables, one thing was certain: Pelant would kill again. She'd not needed the article or charts to tell her that. He'd killed three people that they knew of – one for attention, one to protect himself, and one to frame her. He wouldn't stop until his end goal was met. They just didn't know what that was – she thought if the team had been able to determine it, Angela would have let her know – but Brennan being on the run and out of his control was certainly not what he was after.

Or at least, she didn't see how it would be to his advantage. What had he predicted she would do? Had he assumed she'd turn herself in, report to jail? It seemed so, because if he'd thought the possibility of her leaving was real, wouldn't he have tried to prevent it?

Regardless, if his current goal wasn't being met with Brennan out of his reach, as was most likely, he'd kill again as soon he determined a way to do so that would accomplish his purpose.

But who would he target?

B&B

It was a crappy day. It had started with the dream, and gone downhill from there, complete with another pissing match with Flynn.

But then, there hadn't been any other kind of day, not for over three months.

Booth looked up, saw Sweets heading toward where he sat in the diner, and something on the other man's face told him the crap factor wasn't going to improve.

Sweets pulled out a chair and sat down. He looked around, then lowered his voice. "I think you should know that Flynn requested all my files on Max this morning."

Yep. Crap factor increase. "What files?" Why the hell hadn't Flynn asked for them before? And more to the point, why was he asking for them now?

"He already had my reports from the trial – those are included in the official records. He didn't ask if I had anything else, and I didn't volunteer them."

_Good man._ The words nearly slipped out, and Booth felt the headache that was his usual companion these days start to pound. He was a cop, damn it. He was a _good_ cop. He believed in the bureau. It was wrong to encourage someone to hinder an investigation.

But his family was at stake.

"What's in the files?"

Sweets' expression grew uncomfortable, and the marching beat in Booth's head increased.

"Notes from when we were looking at him for Taffett's murder, and when we were working with him during the bowling alley case. Observations about his and Dr. Brennan's relationship." Whatever he saw on Booth's face had him rushing on. "It was relevant when he was facing trial, and when the bureau asked me to meet with you two."

He'd bet. "I need to see those files." His eyes met, held Sweets' as he asked the other man to break a variety of rules and laws.

Sweets reached into his pocket and pulled out a thumb drive.

B&B

Booth sat for a moment after he pulled into Rebecca's drive. She was going to ask if it was safe for Parker to come home, and what could he tell her? He thought it was, thought it unlikely Pelant would target him. But could he guarantee it? No. Not until that bastard was caught and locked far, far away from anything electronic.

She opened the door as he stepped onto the porch, and gave him an assessing look. "Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for suggesting we meet here." Where there was less chance of Pelant finding a way to eavesdrop.

"Can I get you anything?"

Grateful she knew him well enough not to ask how he was, he said, "A beer would be great. Thanks."

She got one for each of them, and they settled across from each other at the breakfast bar. She took a sip of beer, then cleared her throat. "Seeley, I've been offered another contract in England," she said. Before he could erupt, she motioned with her bottle. "I know I told you I wouldn't take any more long contracts out of DC, but Parker can't live with Mom and Dad indefinitely, and based on what you've said, England would be as safe as Florida. Tell me it's safe for him to come home," she demanded. "Tell me that, and I'll say no to the contract."

He couldn't. But the thought of another long stretch with Parker that far away was a sharp fist in the gut. "How long's the contract for?"

"A year."

A year? She wanted to take his son to another country for year? No. Hell, no. He gripped the bottle hard enough it was a miracle it didn't shatter.

But he'd be safe in England. He looked past Rebecca, stared out through patio doors to the yard, and thought about a year without his son. But the image of Inger Johanssen's body kept inserting itself.

"Take the contract." His voice was raspy. "You're right. He'll be safe there, and that's what matters." He took a long pull of the beer. "I don't think Pelant will go after him. It's not his style, and he's too focused on Bones. But I can't absolutely guarantee that if Parker's in DC."

"From what you've said, I figured if Florida is safe, England is better."

"It should be." He set the bottle down with a thump. A year. The six months Parker had been gone the last time had seemed endless, even as busy as he'd been during the last two months of Brennan's pregnancy. But a year?

"Seeley." Her voice was quiet. "If you catch this bastard, and Parker wants to – and we both know he'll jump at the chance – I'll send him home to live with you and Dr. Brennan in the spring."

He gave her a sharp look. They'd never discussed him having Parker full time.

"He'll need you more as we take on the teen years, not less."

B&B

Angela studied the private message again. It had come through the geek site, and was the most useful thing anyone there had contributed to her efforts to break the code.

Movement caught her eye, and she looked over, saw Cam in her door. Things still weren't completely normal between them – maybe they couldn't be, until Brennan was home – but much of the tension had evaporated in the face of Cam's support against the DHS.

"Do we have a case? You need me?"

"Ah, no." Cam motioned to the computer. "I was just wondering how it was going."

Angela glanced back at the message and frowned. "We may have just caught a break. I've been hoping all summer that the guy who created the language that Pelant modified would contact me, and I think he finally has. Well, the private message says it's him, at least."

Cam stepped further into the office. "You couldn't contract him directly?"

"No. He's pretty much a recluse. He retired from MIT and vanished. I looked for him," she motioned toward the Angelatron. "I kept hoping he'd stumble onto the site and contact me, and he has. Well, he has, unless someone's impersonating him."

"Will he help?"

"Yeah. He told me that it looks like the language itself has been modified from his, more than I'd thought. But he told me a few more things to look for. Part of the problem is that most languages are intended to be understood. Some of the same rules for human language even apply. We have spaces between words, punctuation at the end of sentences, and so do programming languages. This one doesn't." She motioned toward a screen with an image of one long string of symbols covering the entire available space.

"And?"

"And he told me what combination of symbols is effectively a space. It will make it easier to read. He also told me this string," she highlighted a series of nine symbols, "is used in a command with media, such as audio-visual files or pictures. It's not a slam dunk of any kind. But it's important. He also told me to send him more of the code and he'd work on it."

Cam appeared to hesitate. "Is that wise?"

"Or legal?" Angela shrugged. "Beats me. Probably not. But if the bureau believed me about what this code is, they'd probably already have tried to find this guy to consult. And they'll want something besides my word on it, anyway, particularly if it goes to trial."

"Retired MIT faculty. Can't beat that."

"No." She turned back to the screen. "And every sequence I decode puts us closer."

B&B

Hoping to avoid his keepers – Sweets, Hodgins, Angela, Cam and an occasional squintern or two – Booth avoided the diner for lunch and went instead to the coffee cart. He appreciated their support, but, damn it, he didn't need to be babysat. He wasn't hungry, anyway, and if there was nothing new to share about the case, he'd just as soon be allowed to brood in peace.

And he wasn't up to a tactics session. They'd failed. Brennan and Christine had been gone for three months, and they were so far from having anything on Pelant that he'd just given his ex permission to take his son to another country for a year to keep him out of the line of fire. They'd failed, all right, rather spectacularly, and they might as well face that.

Or he'd failed, rather. Angela had made some progress on the code, exhausting herself in the process, but Booth? He'd not done one damn thing to bring his family home. Cam had asked him if he knew anything about why the bureau was sending them so many cases their lab should have been handling, and he'd had to tell her no. He was so far out of the loop at the bureau, he might as well be on Pluto.

So why the hell was he in DC instead of with his family?

He finished his coffee and shoved the cup aside. He might as well go back to his office and continue doing what he was sanctioned to do by the bureau: review cases about to go to trial, and look over cold case notes.

Movement caught his attention, and, in spite of everything, he nearly smiled at the sight of Caroline Julian sailing toward him.

"Cherie, you are one hard man to find." She took the seat across from him at the picnic table and they studied each other.

He'd not seen her recently, either, but that was for her sake as much as his desire to be alone. "Any news on the bar investigation?"

Caroline flapped her hand. "Not yet, but it's only a matter of time until it's closed. All they've got is the money that boy put in my account. No record of me agreeing to help Dr. Brennan in exchange for the money, because I didn't, and no proof that anything I did was improper. I'll be cleared."

He didn't know squat about how being investigated by the bar worked beyond that it must be a colossal pain in the ass, but he did know the woman sitting across from him, and he was nearly sure she wasn't bluffing - she really wasn't worried. So that was something. And there was the bonus of hearing her dismiss Pelant as a boy, not because she was underestimating him, but because that was how she put the piss-ant in his place. It worked for Booth.

Her sharp eyes zeroed in on him. "How you doin'?"

"Still here." No point in spelling out the lack of progress.

"Not what I asked, cherie."

"That's the best answer I got. I'm here." He dropped the napkin he'd been holding. "I'm doing what she wants. I'm in the system while she's off the grid."

"Don't sound like that's working out too well for you."

"She left me here and I can't do jack shit."

"Might be time for plan B."

"I don't know where she is. Exactly But if I look, I'll find her," he admitted in response to her stare. He lowered his voice. "If I find her, I'm done at the bureau."

"I believe in what we do, same as you. Someone's got to stop the bad guys. But you and I both know sometimes the price is just too damn high."

B&B

Sweets wasn't an agent, but he also wasn't above spying on someone, or, surveilling someone, rather, if the situation warranted it. And seeing Agent Flynn moving quickly through the Hoover toward the garage met the requirements.

They weren't parked on the same level of the garage, so it was just luck that he saw which direction the other man went, and was able to follow him – staying a good half block back, of course. It was a pity Hodgins wasn't there. He'd be all over helping Sweets keep the SUV in sight without being caught.

He nearly lost him at one point, and had to go around the block to make the same turn Flynn had. Fortunately, Flynn had slowed, probably looking for an address, so Sweets was able to catch up – enough that he turned himself at one point, as if he'd reached his destination.

With such maneuvers, he continued to follow the other agent, disconcerted to see him finally turn into the parking lot of the bowling alley where Booth and Brennan had worked the murder the year before.

Where Max Keenan played on a league.

Sobered by the reminder of all that was at stake, he slowly drove back to the Hoover. What would Flynn discover in the bowling alley? He was no doubt hoping one of the other players would be able to help him track Max down. Could they? Would they? Sweets knew that some of them had felt betrayed by Max, had been upset that he'd not told them the truth about Booth and Brennan's identity, never mind that someone had been murdered. But would they know anything to tell him? He'd bet that none of them knew how to contact Max directly – Max was too clever for that. But he might have said something at some point that would now give away more than he'd intended.

B&B

Booth collected the mail, and flipped through it as he unlocked the door. Flyers, ads, a couple of things he'd have to look at eventually. Nothing important. Nothing in Brennan's handwriting. Not that there had ever been, at least not that had arrived compliments of the USPS, but he never stopped hoping.

He dropped the pile on his desk, and picked up the folder on Max. He didn't need to look at it to know its contents. He'd spent so much time on it that he could repeat it backwards. He probably now knew things about Max Keenan's life that the other man had long since forgotten.

Well, it was Max, so maybe not.

Brennan was in one of two cities. He was sure of it. Once he'd put his notes together on Max, and sorted them chronologically as much as possible, he'd realized that Max nearly always seemed to wind up in either Tampa or Indianapolis, that buried in anecdotes about all kinds of places were more comments about those two cities than all the others.

It made sense. Medium sized cities where strangers wouldn't be noticed, but not important enough to see a lot of celebrities.

But what did he do now? He'd even narrowed likely neighborhoods down, thanks to some of Max's stories. But if he left town for any reason, Flynn would be on him like glue.

Brennan had wanted him to stay behind, to do what he could from within the bureau. Had he done anything useful? He didn't know. He'd kept the pressure on until the psych facility coughed up the log book and admitted that they couldn't explain those discrepancies, and even Flynn had admitted that the fact the log book was a match to the video feed in respect to every other visitor was 'interesting.' But he didn't care. From the bureau's perspective, she'd confessed her guilt just by running.

But aside from the log book, he hadn't done one damn thing by staying behind. His hands were largely tied. He knew a few agents still believed in Brennan's innocence, and one or two were still suspicious of Pelant, but their hands were tied, too.

On a sigh, he reached for the mail again, stopping when he got to an official looking but vague envelope. He tore it open, and recognized Christine's Social Security card. He pulled it out, intending to file it in the fireproof case, only to halt and run his thumb over her name.

_Christine Angela Booth_

The last name still surprised him. He'd simply assumed Brennan would want to name her Brennan-Booth as an expression of disdain for a patriarchal tradition. But she'd shrugged and told him hyphenated names were unwieldy, and gone with just his last name.

Had Brennan understood that there was nothing of male dominance or patriarchy in the pride he'd felt when he'd held Christine and known that she was his daughter, the miniature person he and Brennan together had created? Although he'd given Brennan grief about a hyphenated name, he'd have been fine with it if she wanted it. After all, Christine was a product of both of them. But she'd surprised him with some anthropological gobbledy-gook about why their daughter wouldn't need to have Brennan's last name to know who she was.

He sighed and sat back, remembering the first time he'd held Christine alone, when Brennan had fallen asleep. Other memories followed, like the first time she'd smiled at him.

Would she still smile that way when she saw him next?

He knew it was a foolish _knew_ it was. He and Parker had been separated for a time right after he was born, when Walter had hauled him back to base, and their relationship hadn't suffered for it. And Brennan was playing the recordings, doing all she could do, given her decision to separate them, to make sure Christine remembered him.

But three months was a long time for an infant.

Unable to face the questions, he shoved the whole mess in the lock box, grabbed his keys, and left.

He told himself he didn't have a particular destination in mind; that he'd just had to get out of that damn house. It no longer felt like them as a family – they'd been gone now longer than they'd lived there - but it wasn't just his, not by a long shot. Not with Brennan and Christine stamped all over it.

But when he parked in the lot next to the pretentious little pool hall, he admitted that it had been his destination all along. He sat there for a while, brooding. He should call someone. A former sponsor, his friend Hank, hell, even Cam. But why? Why did it matter?

He couldn't think of one damn reason not to lose himself in a game.

Very deliberately, he got out of the car and went inside.

He started at the bar, positioned where he could see the tables, and motioned for a Scotch. It wasn't about winning money. It never was. But if he played, he'd win. And he just wanted to win at ...something. Rebecca was taking Parker back to England because he'd be safe there, because Booth couldn't guarantee his safety in DC. Brennan had fled DC with Christine because it wasn't safe for her in DC.

He should have killed Pelant. Yeah, maybe they'd have caught him, maybe he'd have spent the rest of his life in prison. But he'd have done his job. They'd be safe.

Hell, he hadn't even succeeded at the one thing he'd been allowed to do. She'd wanted him to stay, to work within the system to clear her. And here he was, with nothing to show there, either.

But he was good at pool. He'd win. The problem tonight was that there wasn't as much action at the tables tonight as there had been other times he'd been in, and the guys that were playing didn't seem particularly serious. He needed a challenge, damn it. What was the point, otherwise?

He was on his fourth drink and contemplating going elsewhere when the old man, Carl, sat down next to him and motioned for a beer. He took a long pull of it, then turned to Booth. "You look like hell."

Couldn't argue with the truth.

"Son, you look like a man who should take a break. Get out of town for a while. See some new scenery."

The only scenery he wanted to see was Brennan, possibly with his hands around her neck for doing this to them. He brought his glass up, rubbed his forehead with it. She'd done what she had to do, which would be fine if Booth had actually been able to fulfill his end of the deal.

"Minnesota's nice this time of year," Carl continued conversationally. "Not as nice as it is in the spring, of course, but still nice. Late summer, heading into early fall."

Even through the booze, the words sounded odd to Booth, triggered something, but he couldn't quite place it at first. Minnesota? What the hell?

Max.

The shot of adrenaline punched through some of the haze, and he gave the other man a sharp look. "He said if I met someone talking about Minnesota in the spring, they'd be from him."

"He's got a theatrical side. Listen, your pal's putting things together and he's going to get there before you."

"Flynn."

"Max has been careless the last couple of years, given away more than he should have, things his bowling buddies were happy to share."

"Flynn knows where they are?"

"He's getting there."

Booth hadn't realized until just that moment how terrifying the thought of the bureau finding them would be. He took a shallow breath, then another. "I've got it narrowed to two cities."

Carl reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. He slid it toward Booth, then stood. "He told me to keep an eye on things, use my own judgment. That's my judgment."

Booth unfolded the paper, noted a street address, no city or state.

"Florida's too hot for a baby in the summer." With that, the older man turned and walked out.

He knew where she was. Now he had to figure out how to get to her without Flynn following him.

B&B

Brennan was holding Christine on her lap, the computer open in front of them, listening to Booth read. Some days, the baby was more interested in the book in front of her than the screen, but today, her focus was on Booth. She kept reaching out to touch the image in front of her, gurgling and cooing. "Daddy," Brennan said, touching his face with her daughter's small finger.

They finished the first book, and went to the second, and Christine again touched the screen. "That's your daddy," Brennan murmured over the sound of his voice reading. "He loves you very much."

After experimenting with charting Pelant's future behavior, Brennan had done the same thing with several others, but she kept coming back to Booth. She'd charted other decisions he'd made in the past, looking at why he'd done what he had, and then used that to extrapolate what he might be doing now.

She'd told herself it was simply an exercise to better understand the possible science of predicting behavior, but she'd known it was really just as excuse to think about him. The results had unnerved her, though. If she charted his current potential behaviors according to decisions he'd made in the past, applying the same rules, she wound up at the same place every time: sooner or later, he'd leave DC and come find them. He was too much a man of action, a man of family, not to. His commitment to the bureau weighed heavily against such a choice, but his inclination toward rebellion balanced that.

The only unknown was Parker. Booth would see it as a choice between his children, between staying available to Parker and in being with Christine, and the thought of him being in that position brought tears to her eyes. But in the end, she thought he'd choose his daughter – not because he loved her more, but because of her age and vulnerability. Parker had both Rebecca and her parents, and a stable life. Christine had Brennan and Max, and the rather precarious life of a fugitive.

She didn't know how to assign probabilities to his feelings for her. He loved her, but she'd abandoned him, and she of all people knew how that could complicate things. But Booth had always understood why her parents had left her behind, better than she had. He hadn't liked the life it had given her, but he'd understood it. Did that mean he understood why she'd left him behind? Probably. And the fact that he did, that she'd done so for a reason, factored into things, too.

He loved her, loved his daughter. He wouldn't stay in DC, not indefinitely. And that thought both terrified and thrilled her.

B&B

Very early Saturday morning, Booth stood outside the security gates at Dulles, waiting for Parker. He'd thought about using his badge to see if he could convince TSA to let him meet him at the gate, but that would draw attention, something he needed to avoid.

He'd have about an hour with him before Rebecca arrived, and then the two of them would catch their flight to London. Booth was grateful for the arrangement, grateful for the opportunity to say goodbye to his son. He just wished he knew what to say.

As he was leaving the Hoover the night before, Sweets had caught up with him and quietly told him that rumors were circulating that Flynn had contacted bureau field offices in Tampa and Indianapolis asking for a PR push with Brennan and Max's photos.

There was no more time.

He caught sight of Parker's curly head bounding toward him through the exit, followed by a harried airline attendant, apparently tasked with 'unaccompanied minor' duty. And then Parker was launching himself at Booth, and, his arms full of twelve year old boy, he had no more time to spare for pitying thoughts for the escort.

It felt so damn good just to hold him, just for a moment. Then Parker pulled away, and Booth showed his ID to the attendant and signed off on the form she was holding. After she left, Booth turned back to Parker. "You could use a haircut. The Brits are going to think you're a girl."

"Nah. I'll get it cut there. Didn't want to give up time at Disney this week."

"You okay with England?" Not that he had a choice at this point.

Parker shrugged. "Mom says I'll be back in the same school, and there were some cool kids there last year. I'm going to miss my guys from here, though."

"I'm sorry." They'd been upfront with Parker about why Rebecca had broken her promise about another overseas contract.

Parker scowled. "You haven't caught him _yet,_ Dad. You will."

He wished he deserved his son's faith. "We'll keep trying."

"I'll be safe in England, so you can go find them."

Booth didn't know what to say. He'd not even hinted that he might go after them. But he wouldn't lie.

"If I do that, we won't be able to talk, even on Skype."

He saw the moment what he was saying really registered, saw the shadow come into his son's eyes. The Parker took a breath. "She needs you more than I do. She's just a baby, Dad."

Booth's own eyes stung, and he swallowed hard before reaching out to clap his hand on Parker's shoulder. "Listen, if you do ever need me, contact Angela." There was no point in pretending she wouldn't always know how to get a hold of Brennan, apparently. "Do you have her number?"

"Yeah. And her email." He looked around. "Can we go get something to eat while we wait for Mom?"

Never underestimate the importance of food to a pre-teen boy. "I could eat something. But first we need to collect your luggage."

They walked off, Booth's hand still on his son's shoulder. He refused to think about how long it would be before he had another opportunity to do so.

B&B

Once a decision had been made, there was no point in putting it off. Booth had made arrangements the night before; it was only a matter of following through when left the airport and went home. He didn't see the tail Flynn had put on him in May. The other agent had actively avoided Booth the day before as well, and it didn't take a squint to figure out why: he didn't want Booth to know he was moving in on locations where Brennan might be.

Booth was careful, anyway, to do just as anyone watching him would expect him to do. He drove back to the house, parked the car as he normally would, and went inside.

Once there, he took the small duffle he'd packed the night before, and slipped out the back door of the house. Maybe he was being silly. Maybe no one was watching. Maybe Flynn had finally believed Booth when he'd said he didn't know where she was, or maybe he didn't care because he thought he was going to get to her first. But he refused to take chances.

Their back yard butted up against a green area that bordered a small park. As promised, he saw the car, an older non-descript hatchback, sitting at the end of the parking lot. The key was taped in the well above the back left tire, also as promised. A bag was on the seat next to him with two items in it: a cell phone that said 'burner. I'll call if there's news.' and a thick envelope. It was sealed, but across the front was scrawled in Hodgins' writing, "Don't argue. I'll look forward to you paying me back." Inside the envelope was ten thousand dollars in a variety of denominations.

Booth sighed and closed his eyes. He hated to borrow the money, but Hodgins was right to have thought of it. There was no telling how much money Max had, but this would keep them going and off the grid for a long while.

He pulled out of the lot and headed west, toward Brennan and Christine. He didn't know what his reception would be. They did need to know that Flynn was getting close, but he could have used the burner phones Max had given him for that. He could have continued to stay in the system.

But they'd tried it her way. He'd given it three months. Now they were going to do it his way.

Together.

B&B

Holding Michael, Hodgins stuck his head in their home office. Saturdays had once been about family time. Playing with Michael, shopping, art shows. They still did some of that, because both of them had understood that Brennan wouldn't want Michael to suffer while they tried to clear her name. But more and more often, Angela's desperation to find something in the code that would help took at least some precedence.

She was at the computer, her gaze fixed on the monitor and her hands gripped in her hair as if she were afraid her whole head would fly off.

"Hey, babe. How's it going?'

She turned, and smiled when she saw their son, though it didn't entirely reach her eyes. "He took the geek site down."

"Pelant?"

"Yeah. Page not found error. I contacted one of the people whose email I had, and he said the guy who owns the site confirmed it was hacked. Thoroughly. It's not just down, but the database has been corrupted. They'll be able to restore than from the last backup, but more than likely some posts will have been lost."

"What's it mean for us?" He knew it was selfish to be so focused on their goals, but he didn't care all that much.

"Nothing. I've got my own backups of anything anyone contributed about the code. If anything, it may mean I'm getting close and he's nervous. But it does worry me that he might go after some of the coders."

Hodgins frowned. "Are any of them in the DC area?"

"Some would have to be. It's a big site. But only about six users were actively working the Pelant code, and they're not from the east coast. Half of them aren't even in North America."

"Then Sweets would probably say they're low risk."

"Yeah, that's a good point. Thanks." She stood, came over and took Michael from him, bouncing him a bit to get him to laugh. Then she looked up. "I know I said we'd go do something together, but I think I might have something, and want to follow it through."

"You're onto something?"

"Maybe. I don't want to get too excited, but I've been following up on what Ben gave me about the media file, and think I've hit on something." She kissed Michael, handed him back. "Let me give it a couple of more hours, and then we'd do something special for supper. Maybe we can wheedle Booth into coming over for supper."

Hodgins kept his face blank. "Yeah, I'll give him a call."

B&B

In the early dusk, Brennan sat alone on the little patio of the house. Brennan believed it was important that Christine experience other environments than just their hideout, so Max had taken her with him to do some shopping. The time alone was no doubt good for her, as well, but she was always anxious until they were safely back, her daughter once more in her arms.

Still, it was pleasant to sit outside and relax for a few minutes. Max had told her he thought they should move on, move elsewhere, but he didn't have the details worked out yet. She understood why there was a balance between not staying in one place too long and in hiding in plain sight, but found it difficult to think of moving again, of going anywhere else that didn't involve going back to her life.

They were into September now, and had seen their first significant temperature reversal that day. It was cool enough she was wearing a jacket and the scent of wood smoke indicated someone nearby had a fire. She would need to acquire warmer clothes for both herself and Christine before long, a reality she found difficult to contemplate. It had never occurred to her when she left in May that they'd still be fugitives when the seasons changed.

She and her team had failed, and it was probably time to acknowledge that. Three months on, and they couldn't even prove Brennan's innocence, let alone prove Pelant had killed at least three people. But what did they do now? Continue trying, obviously, but for how long? She couldn't raise Christine as a fugitive. So what were the choices? As far as she could see, eventually, she was going to have to decide between giving Christine to Booth and continuing to run on her own, and giving her to him and turning herself in. Either option was unbearable, though maybe they'd let her see her daughter occasionally while she was in jail. Until Pelant killed her, at least.

A sense of rarely experienced despair settled on her. She was used to having a plan. Of finding something she could do to move things forward. But everywhere she turned was a dead end. She'd gone over the reports and images from the murders until she could repeat them from memory, and now understood the theory behind predicting behavior. And what had it accomplished? Nothing. She was alone, heading toward her fourth month of being alone, with nothing to show for it aside from not being in jail, not being at Pelant's mercy. Her entire career she'd spent finding the truth. All of the victims she'd identified, all of the people she'd help find justice for, and now, when so much was at stake personally, she'd failed.

She shivered, though whether it was due to the temperature or her melancholy thoughts, she didn't know, and standing, pushed it all aside. There was always an answer. Somewhere, there was something that would point them in a different direction. She had only to find it, and giving into the emotions that arose at times wasn't conducive to the search. She'd go in, make herself some tea, and find something to do. Some new approach, some new way of looking at the data.

She turned toward the door, and froze, all the breath in her lungs leaving in a rush.

Booth stood just off the patio in the deepening shadows.

For a terrible moment, she wondered if she was experiencing some sort of psychological break. But hadn't she worked it all out? Hadn't she known he'd come?

Moving wasn't a conscious choice. She was standing there, by the chair, and then she was across the patio, launching herself at him, with no thought in between the two actions. He caught her, his arms going around her, strong and warm.

He would always catch her.

For a fraction of a second, they held that way, and then his mouth crashed down on hers.

Brennan lived by words. Words could be precise. The right combination of words expressed reality, left no ambiguity. But he'd taught her there were other ways to communicate, and there was both anger and relief in the kiss, frustration and fear, joy and hope. There was everything there, in that desperate first connection.

A noise came from behind them, and just that fast, Booth was between her and the door, his weapon out.

Max stood there, holding Christine. "Took you long enough," he said. "I was looking for you in July."

Booth didn't hear him, his eyes locked on the baby. She was so big. His mouth had gone dry. What if she didn't know him? Not her fault, not her mom's fault. Brennan was standing next to him, and he could sense her nerves, was aware that she was hardly breathing. He holstered his weapon and started toward Max and Christine, and then checked his speed.

She watched him come toward her, into the circle of light coming through the kitchen window. Her expression was curious, intrigued. Booth stepped up to her, reached out, touched her cheek. "Hi there, baby girl." It was okay if she didn't remember him. They'd have time now. He had to believe that.

"Da." She shifted, held out her arms. "Da!"

He heard Brennan exhale, but stunned, it took a moment for his mind to catch up with what was happening. Christine frowned. "Da!"

Booth reached out, took her from Max. He settled her in one arm, so he could bring his other up and touch her nose with his index finger, something he'd done often before they'd …before. She grabbed hold of his finger and squealed. "Hi, Christine," he whispered.

"I showed her the video. Every day." Brennan's voice was shaky, and he looked over at her, saw the emotion she was trying to suppress. "I showed her your photo. I told her about you."

He leaned over, kissed her, his own heart rocked by the joy of having their child sandwiched between them. "Thanks, Bones," he said softly.

"Da," Christine said again firmly, and they all laughed.

"We should talk," Max said, and held open the door.

"Yeah." They stepped inside, and Booth looked around as Christine began happily to chew on his finger. "Flynn's narrowed it down to here and Tampa. He's going to start a PR push with the media in these two areas. You need to leave."

Max looked over at Brennan and nodded. "They had the TVs back in the electronics section set on the news, and were already flashing your photo." He turned back to Booth. "But you could have called on the burner to tell me that."

Booth just stared at him. "I'm done with plan A." He turned to Brennan. "What we do from here on out, we do together."

Her expression was anxious. If not for that …enthusiastic greeting she'd given him, he'd be doubting her welcome.

"What we do now is leave," Max said. "Where's your car?"

"It's down the street, in that shopping center lot. I didn't want to have a strange car with DC tags in your driveway."

"How far behind you are they?"

Booth's look was steady. "They're not. I'm not in a car they know, they didn't see me leave, and I stayed off main highways until I was well out of DC. Flynn's also backed off of having a tail on me since he's decided he knows where you were, so he may not even figure out I'm gone until Monday when I don't show up at work."

Max gave him a slow grin. "Good man."

"What car are you in?" Brennan was clearly puzzled.

"One of Hodgins' that he keeps at the estate."

Max looked thoughtful, then turned to Brennan. "We should split up. Like we talked about. I'll take Christine."

"No." Booth was a hair faster getting the word out than Brennan. Christine's head had drooped onto his shoulder, the trust in the pose beginning to heal something that had cracked when he watched them drive away, and had shattered completely when he'd said goodbye to Parker.

Brennan reached out, as if to take the baby, and then settled for resting her hand on Christine's back. "Dad…"

"We talked about this. If they're looking for me, too, and it sounds like they are, then splitting up will make it harder for them. I'll take Christine and go one direction, and you two go the other. It will be easier for you to travel without her, and if they catch me…all they'll have is an old man and his granddaughter."

Booth shifted, drew Brennan closer to him, to make them a unit. "It doesn't have to be easy."

"Look, if they catch us and we're together, what happens to Christine?"

Brennan turned, pressed her face against their daughter's back.

"They'd let you go," Booth said. "You're not wanted for anything."

"And where would Christine be until they worked that out?"

"The same place she'd have been all summer if we were caught," Brennan said wearily, lifting her head. "She'd be in foster care."

"That was a risk we took. Do you want to take a bigger one, now that we know they're closing in?"

"No." Her voice broke.

"I'll keep them safe. Both of them," Booth said. But the other man was making a good point.

Max looked at Booth. "Do you have a plan?"

"Not a specific one. I was going to see what you had in mind. But when you told me I didn't know how to be a fugitive, couldn't keep them safe, you forgot one thing."

"Your years in the army."

"I can take them completely off the grid." He looked at Brennan. "If not, we'll figure it out. We've got plenty of cash."

Max looked at him. "Tell me it's not going to piss off your superiors, your being on the run with her. Do you want the baby in the middle of that? Let your being in the mix work for us. You go with her, keep her safe, let me do the same for Christine."

The baby nuzzled against him, and Booth quietly swore.

"I've learned a lot from Dad this summer," Brennan said. "He's right. It would be easier to evade capture if we don't have her with us." A tear slid down her face, and again, she started to reach for Christine, then once more hesitated. Booth pressed a kiss on his daughter's head and then passed her to her.

Brennan took her, rested her cheek on the baby's head, her expression so sad, he wished again that he'd simply killed Pelant when he had the chance.

It was clear Max was thinking the same thing. "Are they getting closer to nailing this guy?"

"No. But Angela is certain she's close to clearing Bones."

Brennan looked up. "How?"

He filled them in on what he knew, then added, "She's certain she'll find proof in one of those programs that will clear you. All she has to do is figure out one of them, and she thinks she'll be able to break them all. And now she has some guy from MIT who created the software language in the first place helping her."

"That sounds promising," Brennan said, but her tone sounded doubtful.

"There's also some other things." He told them about Cam's discovery about the car, and Elaine Collier.

Brennan's eyes lit. "I liked Elaine a great deal. She was much more interesting to talk to than many people who are sane."

Booth smiled, and realized how long it had been since he'd done so. "She liked you, too."

"It would be better to catch that bastard," Max said.

"We'll take what we can get. Clearing Bones is the first step. And then we'll put Pelant away."

Max turned, looked at Brennan. She looked down at the baby sleeping against her, and swallowed. "You'll take good care of her?"

Protest rose, and Booth bit it back. He could argue, could insist on them staying together, on keeping the baby with them. Already he was failing at what he'd promised her, that they'd stay together from here on. But Max was right.

"You know I will," Max said.

They both looked at Booth. He took a breath."It won't be for long. When she gets a little older, she'll be nagging us to spend summers with grandpa."

"I can take her to Russ and Amy," Max said. "As soon as you two are well away, I'll head there. They'll know I was with you, but I won't know where you are. And she'll have not only me to love her, but Russ and Amy and the girls."

Brennan swallowed. "That makes sense. And we'll know where you are when Angela finishes this."

Max looked over at the clock. "I'll go get Hodgins' car, bring it back here. Christine and I will leave in it. You and Tempe take what we've been driving. That will not only confuse them if they are looking for the car you were in, our car is all wheel drive. Might be useful if you wind up camping." He looked at them, then nodded toward Christine. "Might take me an hour or so.'

Booth handed him the keys. "It's a blue Ford hatchback, parked in the grocery section of the lot."

"Got it."

He left, and Booth reached out, pulled Brennan to him, simply held both of them. At different times during the past few months, he'd been so angry, sometimes at her, as irrational as it had been. But right now, all he wanted was to find a way to fix things, and he couldn't.

Brennan leaned against him. "I'm glad you're here," she said quietly. "I knew you'd come, and knew I shouldn't want you to. But maybe you should go with them. Dad and I have talked all along about whether it might be necessary to separate at some point, and him take her. If you go with them, at least she'll have one of us." She looked up and he saw heartbreak, fear, and resolve all rolled into her expression. "I'll be fine."

"No." He reached out, stroked the baby's hair. "If it was a question of going with you or leaving her with a stranger, I'd go with her. But your father loves her. And if he goes to Russ and Amy, she'll have an army of people loving her. I'm not leaving you alone."

"I'm glad you're here."

B&B

Booth pulled into the parking lot of a hotel off a state highway outside Lexington, Kentucky and looked over at Brennan. "I don't think either one of us should try and drive more tonight. It's been a long day."

"I should have offered to drive. I didn't think about the fact that you'd already driven from D.C."

"It's okay. I wanted us well away from Indianapolis. But this is far enough for a few hours. We'll get some sleep and start again."

It went better in the office than he'd hoped. The clerk, a young man in his twenties, looked bored out of his mind and barely glanced at Booth before taking his money and handing him a key – a real one, not a electronic card. "Checkout's 11AM. Drop the key in the office."

"Thanks."

The room was at the back, which was good. "No one knows what we're driving, but the less anyone sees, the better," he said as they parked outside the room.

Brennan nodded, and got out. Booth watched her get her bag, and then stop and stare at the backseat a for a moment before she turned, went to the door and waited for him. His bag in hand, he followed her.

She was completely shut down – what Sweets would call 'compartmentalizing' - and while he understood it, he didn't know what to do about it. She'd nearly broken when she kissed Christine goodbye, but by the time they were in the car, driving away, she was at her most rational, emotions tucked away.

He knew what saying goodbye to Parker had done to him, what saying goodbye to Christine had done. The baby had known, he thought. Somehow, she'd known they were leaving and while it was clear she loved Max, she'd looked so sad that Booth had nearly changed his mind. He could have, he knew. He could simply have loaded her in the car, told Max he could stay or go, and driven off.

But the thought of her somehow being caught in ugly crossfire had had him following through on their plans, his heart in pieces. And then he'd looked at Brennan, tried to imagine what it would be like for her, when she'd been with Christine nearly every minute for the past three months, and had known that as heartbreaking as it was for him, it was worse for her.

He opened the door, stepped aside to let her precede him. She dropped her bag on the bed. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Hey." He shut and locked the door behind them, dropped his own bag, and caught her hand with his. "Come here."

She resisted for a moment, then allowed him to pull her to him. She pressed her face against his shoulder, and shuddered.

"It's going to be okay," he whispered. Please, God, let it be okay. "She'll be fine with Max. He loves her. And Russ and Amy will spoil her. You know that.."

"She looked so sad. I remember when I realized they weren't coming back. She knows, Booth. She knows we're not coming back. I know it doesn't make any sense, but she knows."

She was sobbing so hard the words were garbled, and it took a moment for him to understand. "Ah, Bones," he whispered. "No. It's not like that."

She pulled away, or tried to, and wiped her face. "It's exactly like that. We drove away, to protect her. She doesn't know when she'll see us again. Or if."

He gave her a gentle shake, then just pulled her back to him. "It's totally different. Your parents were running from a bunch of killers. Once they knew the gang was after them, they couldn't come back, and they knew it. We just need to give Angela a little more time, Bones. She's working so hard on that code. We all know that's how Pelant did it, and she's going to find it. You have to trust her. And in the meantime, Christine isn't on her own, not even with a nineteen year old to look after her. She's got your dad, who knows her, knows her routines. And he's taking her to Russ and Amy. She'll miss us, but she'll be okay. It's not the same thing," he whispered helplessly, knowing that it felt the same.

She cried for a long time, and more than a few tears slid down his face as he held her.

Finally, the storm over, they simply continued to stand there. Although he desperately wished Christine was with them, it felt so good just to hold her.

"I wonder if they felt this way," she finally said.

"Your parents? You know they did." He kissed her forehead. "It must have been harder on them, for just the reasons we were talking about. Your dad told me he'd call on the burner when they get to Russ's, by the way."

"He shouldn't do that. There's too much risk involved."

"Not just one call, between two burners, to put our minds at ease. They should be there tomorrow. We'll avoid going out of the reach of cell towers until we hear."

In apparent answer, she pulled his face down and kissed him. "Make love with me. I need you, so much.

He shoved her bag to the floor, and dropped with her onto the bed.

B&B

Brennan woke, panicked for a moment with the wrongness of the environment. Then the hard male warmth wrapped around her – and he was – fully registered. The rightness of being with Booth confirmed the wrongness of Christine's absence. For the first time, her daughter's care was completely out of her control. The sadness came back, but not the desperate terror and grief of the night before.

"Hey." He pressed a kiss against her shoulder. "You okay?"

She shifted a bit, so she could look over her shoulder to where he was curled behind her. "Yes. I'm still missing her, but you're correct. The situations are different. It's just hard because she's so young, and there's no way of reassuring her. But she's with someone who loves her and who she is familiar with."

He cupped her cheek. "We're going to make our way toward DC," he said. "Some camping, some hotels, but as soon as word comes that you're cleared, we'll go get her."

She turned so she could rest her head on his shoulder. "It's a lot of pressure on Angela."

"She's up to it," he said confidently, and then told her about the rest of the summer. Hodgins' interview with the math professor, Sweets' meeting with Elaine Collier, Cam's insistence on seeing the full forensic report on the car.

Brennan listened, just absorbing it, and, to her sorrow, heard what he wasn't saying. It wasn't a skill she could ever demonstrate with anyone else. But she knew Booth. Had studied him as intently as she'd ever studied a bone or another culture. "I'm sorry."

His eyes were guarded. "For what?"

"For leaving. For not telling you. Perhaps an apology isn't quite right, as I believe I would make the same choice. But …I regret that there didn't seem to be any other choices."

"I know. We'll get through it." He kissed her, then rolled away, stood. "I'm going to take a shower."

"You're angry." And she'd missed that. Perhaps she didn't understand him as well as she'd believed.

He sighed, turned back to look at her. "It's complicated. You did the right thing. And yeah, I'm angry, anyway. _You drove away._ You left me standing there. Feelings don't always line up neatly behind our brains, Bones. I'll get past it. We'll get past it. But yeah, when I think of you driving away like that…that's going to stick for a while. I'm going to take a shower."

She laid there, listened to the shower run, and wondered what it would look like, that place they'd be when they were past it.

B&B

Cam signed off on a report, and sat back with a sigh. Things were still rushed, but the bureau had backed off sending them obvious busy work, and she didn't know what that meant, anymore than she'd known what it meant when they were sending them cases their people should have been able to handle. With Clark's help, had she finally proven to them that they could continue to do the job? Or had there always been something else going on?

Booth had left over the weekend. Flynn had called on Monday, furious, wanting to know if she knew anything, and beyond being sincerely glad for her friend that he'd left to be with his family…no, she didn't know anything.

She hadn't added that if she did know, she wouldn't say.

A sound of steps, moving fast, alerted her, and she looked up to see Angela in her door. Her expression struck Cam as excited and grim, and somehow, oddly amused. "I'm taking proof that Brennan was framed to Cullen. Want to join me?"

Hell, yes. "I wouldn't miss that for the world."

They didn't talk much on the way to the Hoover, but when they parked and started inside, Angela said, "His admin gave me grief about proper channels, the primary of which is apparently Flynn – who is not going to be amused by demonstration, by the way – so I called Cullen directly." Sadness crept into her expression. "Seven years ago, he told me to call him if there was ever anything he could do for me. I never thought I'd take him up on it. But this? He needs to see this."

'What about the prosecutor?"

"I didn't have anything to bribe him with. I'm just trusting Cullen. He'll know this is enough to clear her."

The admin scowled, but waved them past, into the office. Cam was surprised to see Sweets and Caroline there as well as Flynn.

"I'm not here in an official capacity," Caroline said. "Just a nosy one."

"What's this about, Angela?" Cullen asked.

"Sir, I've got proof that the security footage from the psych facility was modified to make it look like Brennan was there on a night she wasn't."

Flynn opened his mouth, then shut it.

Cullen gave her a sharp look. "Proof that will stand up in court?"

"Yes, sir." Angela's voice was calm and completely confident. "As you know, software code was placed on the RFID tags of a number of books belonging to the local library. The code was in a language called Malboge, or rather, a variation of it."

"Mal-what? What the hell is that?" Cullen demanded.

Sweets looked thoughtful. "The eighth circle of hell,"

"Exactly. It was created by an MIT professor named Ben Ortman. It was never intended to be used for real coding," she said.

"But someone wrote programs in it and put them on these library books," Cullen said. "Why?"

"The books allow the code to get to the internet, and from there, they can go wherever they need to." Angela held up a thumb drive, motioned to his computer.

Cullen took it, put it in the port. "This won't damage my PC, will it?"

"No, sir." He turned the keyboard to her, and she tapped a few keys. "I've spent the summer learning the language, and figuring out what some of the code does. Dr. Ortman is retired and rather reclusive, but he was intrigued enough that someone had used the code to assist me. He's agreed to testify if necessary."

"MIT, huh?" He turned back to the monitor. "So what do the programs do?"

"I don't know what they all do, not yet, but with Dr. Ortman's help, I was able to focus on the programs that deal with media files."

An image came up on the monitor, and Flynn said, "That's the footage from the psych facility, the night the systems went down, when Dr. Brennan was there."

"You keep thinking that," Angela said.

A moment later, the door opened, but instead of Brennan coming out, Flynn did.

"Hey! I wasn't there that night!" He rounded on Angela. "I can prove that. Changing the files so it looks like I was doesn't clear Dr. Brennan."

Angela ignored him. "Sir, I did this to make a point. Of course Agent Flynn wasn't there. But the program on the RFID tag is designed to take an image from some other part of the feed and insert it at that precise point. Anyone going into or out of the facility could be made to look like they were there that night. Dr. Ortman will back me on this."

"So unless Dr. Brennan framed herself for some reason, she wasn't there that night." Cullen looked thoughtfully at the PC.

"No, sir. I believe if I keep working on the code, I'll also find the program used to take down the system at the psych facility that night, and quite possibly what was used to transfer funds into Ms. Julian's account."

"Given that Angela is saying that this software language is particularly challenging," Sweets observed. "it's worth noting that Dr. Brennan has no background in programming at all."

Cullen turned to Flynn. "So what we have is proof, backed up by an MIT professor, that the video feed was altered, along with the hair which appears to have been planted in her car, and a crazy lady's journal that supports that Dr. Brennan hadn't been in the facility for two weeks prior to Ethan's death. Do you have anything else that supports the warrant for her arrest?"

Flynn's expression was grim. "No, sir. Not apart from the fact that she fled. Everything else was always circumstantial."

"Would you do anything different if it was you?" Cullen motioned to the frozen image of Flynn on the screen.

"I'd like to think I would, but…" Flynn shook his head.

Cullen turned to Caroline. "I know you don't have any authority here, Ms. Julian, but what's your take on this?"

"My boss is no fool. We take this to trial, and the defense shows that video changed a half a dozen times with different people, they'll laugh us out of the courtroom."

"The code does the manipulation, by the way. All you need to know is the location of the frames you want moved," Angela commented.

Cullen turned to Angela, humor glinting in his eyes. "I'll contact the prosecutor and let you know when I've confirmed it, but I agree with Ms. Julian. I expect the charges against Dr. Brennan will shortly be dropped. Tell them they can come home."

Flynn turned to glare at her, and Angela gave them all an innocent look. "I don't know where they are, sir." Exactly. "But I believe they'll know when the charges are dropped."

"What about Booth?" Cam asked.

Cullen rubbed his hand over his head. "It's going to be bad enough when the media finds out that a popular bestselling author has been on the run because she was framed, and it took us three months to acknowledge that. If they find out that her partner – a decorated public hero – is being punished because he finally gave up and joined her, we'll all be covered by the resulting shit storm. Particularly your boss," he said to Caroline, "and you," he pointed at Flynn, "which is the same as me. We're not going there. Get them home, and all of you, start finding proof of who killed Ethan Sawyer and framed Dr. Brennan for it."

B&B

It had taken time to get to Russ and Amy's, and then more time to reassure her brother she was fine, so it was late when they drove into their neighborhood. Brennan had expected the house to be dark, but wasn't entirely surprised to see the lights on, and the cars parked out front.

"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Booth said.

"Not so different from the night Christine was born."

"A fresh start, huh, baby girl?" Booth opened the back door, unbuckled Christine, and lifted her out. She'd been sleeping, and she yawned before dropping her head back on his shoulder. Would he ever tire of that simple sweet gesture? He didn't think so.

"I like the fact that our friends are here, waiting for us," Brennan observed as they opened the door and walked in.

They were all there, and Brennan had heard enough to know that they'd all played a role in making it safe for her to come home. But it was Angela she went to first. "Thank you," she whispered as they hugged.

Angela laughed, though a tear was tracking down her face. "You didn't think I'd let you leave me alone with these guys, did you?"

At that, they all laughed. Booth stood back, Christine asleep on his shoulder, and watched her greet the others. Even Clark was there, and Caroline.

After a while, Sweets made his way over to him. "I'm concerned about something," he said slowly.

"Pelant."

"This is going to piss him off. He'll be at his most dangerous."

"What do you think he'll do?"

"He might lie low for a while, particularly since he's going to have to figure out what it means that Angela's cracked his code. But sooner or later, he'll try to finish whatever it is he was after with this."

"Then we'll be ready for him." He rested his cheek on his daughter's head, glanced around the room. "He's not going to do this again."

His gaze tracked to Brennan, and he saw she was watching him. Their eyes held for a moment, and he made it a silent vow. "He's not going to get us again," he murmured.

_fin_


End file.
